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t. 730 

Frederick Yt^icks 50 Cents 

nM at the Post-Office at New York, as Second-class Mail Matter. Issued Monthly. Subscription Price per Year, 12 Nos., $T.50. 

U 

z 

VEILED HAND 


^ Koucl 


BY 

FREDERICK WICKS 



NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 
January, 1893 


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HE VEILED HAND 


a movci 

of 

Ube Sixties, tbe Seventies, anb tbe Eighties 


BY ^ 

FREDEEICK WICKS 

\l 





NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 


1893 


« 









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I 


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While the historian deals with the growth of peoples and the movement of nations^ it 
is the province of the novelist to exhibit the domestic life of his contemporaries. His 
object should be to give pichires of the life of the day, refecting the most striking phases 
and the most startling developments of social relationship, that the strength and weak- 
ness of the nation may be seen in the detail. In proportion as he does this, without 
exaggeration, and yet with sufficient coloring to mark with effect the characteristics 
he portrays, he is successful. 


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CONTENTS 


FIRST PERIOD: THE SIXTIES 

CHAP. PAGX 

I. WHEN ALL THE WORLD WAS BEFORE HER 1 

II. THE SUCCESSORS TO THE POTTINGERS 6 

III. AMY CHIPPERING IS PROVOKED TO ENVY JQ 

IV. PURSUITS VARIOUS lY 

V. doctors’ commons 23 

VI. AN IMPROVING NEIGHBORHOOD 26 


SECOND PERIOD: THE LATTER PART OF THE SIXTIES 

VII. THE DELFOYS 36 

VIII. LUCKROSS CASTLE AND A BULL-PUP 44 

IX. THE DELFOYS DINE 60 

X. THE AFFAIR OF THE CLEUCH 68 

XI. FOR THE HONOR OF THE FAMILY 68 

XII. A LITTLE LEGACY 76 


THIRD PERIOD: THE SEVENTIES 

XIII. WINDOW-DRESSING IN HIGH QUARTERS 82 

XIV. UNUSUAL MORALITY . .... 92 

XV. THE GIRL VICKERS . ,100 

XVI. CONCERNING A GREAT DRAGON 106 

XVII. NICE AND OPALS 109 

XVIII. THE REST OF THE NOTES 113 

XIX. FOR VALUE RECEIVED ,117 

XX. THE GROUND-FLOOR LODGER 122 


FOURTH PERIOD: THE EIGHTIES 

XXI. THE NEW LEAF y .... . 128 

XXII. THE GREAT CORADELL . 131 

XXIII. THE SOLICITOR . .' 139 

XXIV. THE ARISTOCRACY IN THE CITY 146 

XXV. THE COUNTESS OF BOLORE VERY MUCH AT HOME 163 


VI 


CONTENTS 


FO UR TH PERIOD — Continued 

OHA.P. ' PAOK 

XXVI. DOMESTICITY 161 

XXVII. A PARTY OF EIGHT 172 

XXVIII. THE BOWDLER GARDEN-PARTY 180 

XXIX. CITY MATTERS 186 

XXX. A BUSY DAY 193 

XXXI. THE PRIVATE SECRETARIES 204 

XXXII. REACTION . 208 

XXXIII. SEVERAL SORTS OP JOY * 213 

XXXIV. A MODEL HEIR 218 

XXXV. BOWDLER’s MISSION 224 

XXXVI. M. BLANCHE ' 231 

XXXVII. M. BLANCHE TAKES A BIRD’.S-EYE VIEW 236 

XXXVIII. THE RELAPSE 242 

XXXIX. MR. MAWLL OP MADRID 247 

XL. SUFFERING 268 

XLI. NO SURRENDER 267 

XLII. THE AUTOCRAT OF LABOR ■ 264 

XLIII. A ROUND OF THE CLOCK 271 

XLIV. THE LORD OP LUCKROSS ' 291 

XLV. THE BULLS AND THE BEARS 298 

XLVI. THE WRECK 303 

XL VII. THE REAPING 311 


THE VEILED HAND 


FIRST PERIOD : THE SIXTIES 


Chapter I 

WHEN ALL THE WORLD WAS BEFORE HER 

Although the closing incidents of this story happened but the other 
day, in the midst of the ordinary conflict of commercial and political an- 
tagonism, it is necessary to go back five-and-twenty years to discover 
what may be regarded as the initial cause of those passages of human 
strife that have so recently agitated “ the world.” 

It was a stolen interview at the close of a July evening in Charnock 
Park — a place of historic interest and rare solitude — and surely the 
strength of the passion that had brought the lovers to the try sting-place 
had been severely strained, for there was a frown upon his face, and fear 
and doubt upon hers. There had been meetings before this; and now a 
crisis had arisen. 

They were both very striking in appearance, and both young. He 
was not twenty-two, and she was still younger by nearly a year. Her 
chief characteristics were gentleness and trust and self-devotion ; and 
his, imperious command and bitter resentment towards those who 
thwarted him. Commonplace people would have described these attri- 
butes of his as selfishness, and some others as evidence of a proper pride ; 
while all the world knows that a young girl, all tenderness and love and 
hope, is an enemy to herself when matched in strife with daring 
egotism. 

He had thrown himself on the ground in a fit of petulance, and was 
tearing up the grass in an appropriate spirit of destructiveness, while the 
girl stood leaning her back against a tree, with her hands clasped before 
her, and upon her face were signs of distress and doubt. Her anxiety 
gave eharacter to a face that some might have said was too accurately 
modelled for every-day wear ; and if the mists of passion had not ob- 
scured his sight he might have discovered in that look a key to the 
1 


2 


THE VEILED HAND 


treasures of a heart whose nature he had never even sought to compre- 
hend, much less to reflect in rougher characters, its passionate devotion 
and self-denial. 

She was very beautiful. Her face was oval, and lighted with dark, 
lustrous eyes, that told of patience, endurance, and a capacity of self-im- 
molation. Her dark brown hair, somewhat at variance with the fashion 
of pads, then prevailing, was plainly parted in the middle, and as plainly 
secured in a plait or knot behind. Her lips were inclined to fulness, and 
were strangers in expression to anything but sympathy and compassion. 
Her figure was slight, but of the medium height; and her whole de- 
meanor was that of one who loved with incomparable devotion, and 
hoped with an abounding confidence that the love she longed for would 
be hers when the anger of the moment should have passed. 

It did not pass readily. He rose and strode about, wildly gesticulat- 
ing and muttering imprecations as he shook bis fist at the heavens. 
Then, turning to his companion, who remained still in the same posture 
of anxious doubt, he cried : 

•“ Oh, Muriel, if you did but understand the injustice that confounds 
me at every point you would not be so cruel as to deny me the comfort 
of your companionship, the soothing influence of your love.” 

And although these words were thrust at her reproachfully, and even 
with bitterness, she answered in fearful, appealing tones : 

“You have my love, Geoffrey, and must always have it.” And then, 
in accents almost of despair, she cried, “Oh, how can I help but love 
you ?” 

The frown passed from his face to be replaced by a smile, not un- 
mixed, however, with a sinister eagerness. Approaching her, he said : 

“ Forgive me, Muriel. I am so very miserable, and your sympathy is 
such sweet temptation.” 

He put his arm around her waist and kissed her tenderly, while she 
responded with a look of timid, trustful love. 

Thus the phrases and the action were more in keeping with the peaceful 
beauty of the surroundings — the balmy air, the golden glow of the sun- 
set, the rich foliage of the unfrequented glade, and the perfect solitude 
— for there were none to witness their passion and their vows but the 
curious deer. 

He was elegant rather than handsome, with a profile that would not 
have been amiss sketched upon a Roman coin, but the color and move- 
ment of life blurred the outline, and the physiognomist would have seen 
no beauty in a form marred by a shifting eye that fondness described as 
violet, and indiffence as gray, and marred still more by a thin and nerv- 
ous lip that assumed many forms, betokening with invariable precision 
the dominant passion of the moment. This peculiarity grew more pro- 
nounced in later life, but in his youth the die had not been cast for 


WHEN ALL THE WORLD WAS BEFORE HER 


3 


moulding his future, and it was as yet uncertain whether restraint should 
curb or license aggravate the latent evil enclosed within this graceful ex- 
ample of poor human nature. 

“Oh, Murielj” said he after a pause, “you who love me can do much 
for me — very much.” 

He looked at her with the inquiring, longing smile of the lover, and 
she answered, with something of hope and rejoicing in her tones : 

“You have my love, Geoffrey, as you know, and may have all the help 
of which I am capable, but that I fear is very little.” 

“ And very little is needed — merely sympathy and encouragement — 
nothing more.” 

“But you will want advice in your difficulties?” she suggested, inquir- 
ingly, “ and you have told me often girls cannot reason.” 

“Nor can they,” he answered, decidedly, “all the world agrees on that, 
but they are moved to a conclusion by instinct, and your instinct is un- 
erring. But why do we trifle ? Love is not a matter of argument, nor 
are the actions of love regulated by the rule of three. You cannot love 
me, or you would give me your sympathy and your companionship.” 

He flung from her again ; and she, all trembling, cried : 

“ When the time comes, Geoffrey, I shall be yours always and for all 
time, but you must not claim me sooner; and oh, Geoffrey,” she pleaded, 
“ you frighten me with your vehemence and your anger.” 

“ How can I refrain from anger ?” he cried. “ Look at my position 
— my father a spendthrift, and me a younger son. What future have I, 
with a commission in one of the most extravagant regiments in the serv- 
ice and with the income of a valet? They talk to me of ‘the honor of 
the family,’ and of ‘the credit of our name,’ and expect me to maintain 
these costly characteristics with the beggarly pittance they fling at me 
grudgingly, scornfully.” 

“ We must be patient, Geoffrey.” 

“Why patient? I will not be patient. Nothing can be got by pa- 
tience. You do not understa'nd; you have not studied the evils of our 
social system, the tyranny of social custom, the harshness of a father, the 
brutal arrogance of an elder brother. Why should I be patient ?” 

He regarded her with animosity as he put the question, and she, 
trembling as she listened, was struck dumb with apprehension, not for 
herself but for him, so wild and heedless did he carry himself. 

“ Ah, Muriel,” he added, bitterly, as if reproaching her for her silence, 
“ you know little of the injustice of the world and the need for mutual 
help or you would not regard my sufferings with such indifference.” 

She looked at him, amazed and even horrified. No sign was written 
on his face of the love and sympathy he claimed of her. His eyes 
flashed, his lips were drawn, and his hair lay disordered on his temples. 
He was possessed with an impotent rage — or was he acting? 


4 


THE VEILED HAND 


The change in his companion from blank amazement to a sense of 
weakness and distress was quickly followed by complete dejection. She 
buried her face in her hands, and sinking to the ground, she gave vent 
to her misery in violent sobs, made more distressing by her efforts to con- 
trol them. The next instant he was at her side comforting her, and again 
an expression of sinister triumph crossed his face before he lifted her fair 
forehead to the light and kissed it with every mark of passionate fervor. 

What could she do but nestle in his arms, and at his bidding stay the 
ready tears? It was not for her to question or withstand his bold, 
defiant manner. She wept without anger in her weakness and distress, 
and forgave the pain and injustice without resentment. She- was only 
glad the storm was over, and was content to believe his protestations 
when he attributed his excitement to the fears he had for their future 
happiness if his efforts proved unavailing to exact justice from his 
family. And then she listened with growing pride to his brave defiance 
of custom, as is the manner of young philosophers who are also younger 
sons, and thought how grand it would be to see him, as he promised he 
would be, in Parliament, reforming abuses and righting wrongs, and 
doing all the noble things that youth inspires and vested interests deny. 

So, step by step, he reassured her and renewed her simple faith, and 
bore her, as by gentle leading, back to the point whence all the mischief 
had arisen.* They must make haste to fly from uncongenial surround- 
ings, harsh relatives, and faithless friends, and make a new world of their 
own — a glorious world, made still more glorious by their good deeds. 

The prospect was enchanting, and they set themselves to work devising 
ways and means, the time and manner of departure, and the destination. 
They would be married in London ; they would journey to Paris ; and 
they would ask nobody’s permission. Said he: 

“Let me urge you, Muriel, in the name of our ambition in well-doing, 
to listen to my pleadings! Do not let us risk success by taking others 
into our confidence.” 

“ May I not tell my aunt ?” she asked. 

“ Why should you ? She has no love for you.” 

“ I think she’ loves me in her way.” 

“ Then it’s not a nice way. She would only tell your uncle, and then 
there would be an end to our arrangements.” 

Muriel became concerned, and her companion went on, 

“ Our course is very clear. You have to settle what day we shall go 
to London, and we have nothing to do but go. Next day I will get 
a license, and after that we will be married whenever you please.” 

She shook her head. She could not give her reason, but she doubted. 
Instantly he rose to his feet, and a slight tremor of annoyance passed 
over his face and hovered round his mouth. The movement was far 
more dangerous than the more violent demonstration of passion, because 


WHEN ALL THE WORLD WAS BEFORE HER 


5 


it was altogether real. He turned to her and said, in slow, measured, and 
masterful tones, 

“ I am sorry, Muriel, if it cannot be ; but it can be no other way than 
I say. I will not meet your uncle nor your aunt. You say you do not 
wish to meet them in the future, therefore you can have no regard for 
them. You have no other relatives. You are your own mistress. Come, 
and the future shall be as you wish it. Refuse, and let us both h^ mis- 
erable. Is it to be farewell ?” 

Again she buried her face in her hands. The unerring instinct with 
which he had credited her and all other vvomen was wrestling des- 
perately within her; and, like a poor hunted thing, as indeed she w'as, 
she searched her weary mind if haply in the tumult of her passion she 
could find some manner of escape if only for a time ; but another and a 
stronger power pressed her forward with irresistible force, and in defiance 
of the instinct of self-preservation, regardless of conventional barriers 
and in sheer desperation, she thrust out her arms and cried, but still with 
her head averted and half bowed down — 

“ Oh, Geoffrey, deal mercifully with me ; I cannot help but love you !” 

He stepped forward and raised her gently by the hand. 

So the victory was won ; and drying her tears in silence, she rested her 
head upon his shoulder, with all resistance to his will forever at an end. 
The day, the place, the very hour were all determined in a few minutes, 
for the waning sun had warned them Muriel was late. And away she ran, 
hurrying as if for dear life and in fear of rebuke at home, but full of 
hope and promise of great joy ; and now and then, as she skurried over 
the uneven ground, she looked back for yet another last glimpse of 
Geoffrey, waving his hat as much in triumph as in encouragement and 
farewell. She loved him, and she had promised, and therefore had no 
more room for doubts. She thought as little of his motives as the 
wondering deer, far away up the glade ; nor perhaps did he, except that 
he must needs have his way when he had set his heart upon a thing. 
He had never asked himself, not even once, how much of truth and 
honesty were in his purpose, how much the juvenile philosophy of the 
Oxford Union had distorted his brain and dressed black selfishness in 
the garb of personal devotion or patriotic ambition. And what could 
she tell ? His words, when he declaimed of social wrongs, seemed full 
of ripe experience, and were eloquently spoken in tones that to her were 
the very perfection of music. 

Thus Muriel hurried on, with her full heart and her boundless devo- 
tion, to a place that was no home for love, and to kindred whose sordid 
aspect and companionship formed only a gloomy background for the 
picture she would draw of her lover’s character and ambition. Every- 
thing that was brilliant in hope and heroic in promise was his; and 
these, with the grand projects of his life, were now not only his but hers. 


Chapter II 

THE SUCCESSORS TO THE POTTINGERS 

Mr. Chippering, the eminent haberdasher, waited in the hall of The 
Beeches, watch in hand, a model of punctuality and an expert in the art 
of rebuke, for his niece Muriel was late for prayers. 

The Beeches was the name of a mansion that might with propriety be 
described as magnificent. The auctioneer who had put it up to knock it 
down to Mr. Alfred Chippering said it was “ an ancient demesne and the 
ancestral home of the Pottingers.” It was a Gothic building in good 
preservation, and the park in which it stood was admirably wooded. 
Why the Pottingers had given up their “ancestral home,” and Mr. Alfred 
Chippering had taken it, was due to the fact that the Pottingers had not 
attended to their business, which was land-owning, and that Mr. Chipper- 
ing, wholesale haberdasher and warehouseman, had attended to his. 

The rise and progress of the Chipperings was coincident with the 
decay and fall of the Pottingers. When Mr. Chippering, a raw, ungainly 
youth of penurious habits, was rejoicing in the pride of an employment 
producing three and sixpence a week, as messenger to a suburban draper, 
the last of the Pottingers was acting on the truly Pottinger theory that 
it was his duty to himself, his family, and society to spend ten thousand 
a year, regardless of his revenues; and when, in the plenitude of his 
commercial successes, Mr. Chippering was entering into possession of 
The Beeches, the contemporary Pottinger was perambulating Pall Mall, 
the Park, and Piccadilly a pensioner of some less prodigal branch of the 
family. Here, and in the clubs, which he still frequented, he day by day 
deplored the decadence of the Empire, as exemplified by the special cir- 
cumstances of his being no longer the possessor of revenues he had 
dissipated. And so the wheel of fortune revolves upon its axis, and with 
inexorable justice illustrates the consequences of folly and the triumphs 
of thrift. 

Chippering was a little man, bald on the forehead and crown of the 
head, with a frill of whisker and beard round his face, but otherwise 
clean-shaven. He wore a high collar, a satin necktie of complicated 
design, with a diamond pin in it, a white waistcoat, and a black frock 
coat, very long in the skirt. He was a shop-walker, every inch of him, 
but he had supplanted the Pottingers, as shop-walkers who attend to 
their business do. 


THE SUCCESSORS TO THE POTTINGERS V 

The accumulation of money is not difficult, if men would but keep to 
simple methods and eschew ambition. To concentrate the mind, the 
heart, and the very soul within the simple square of the multiplication 
table, and avoid the fascination of geometrical progression as represented 
by the fables of the Stock Exchange ; to restrict one’s dissipation to the 
pursuit of knowledge in the suburban lecture- hall, and subdue the ten- 
dency to encourage social aspirations, are the leading principles with 
which the huckster guides himself with petty steps to fortune ; and then 
he dies with the glorious knowledge that he is worth so much. Mr. 
Ohippering was approaching sixty, with the happy consciousness that he 
had become rich without a stain upon his commercial character. He 
was one of the first haberdashers who had discovered the enticing proper- 
ties of elevenpence three farthings as compared with the unbroken shil- 
ling, and he .had once been known to give utterance to a smart saying : 
“Don’t talk to me of the nimble ninepence,” said he; “give me the 
frolicsome farthing.” And the pursuit of the frolicsome farthing became 
the passion of his life. 

Although in the early days the influence of the multiplication table was 
tried upon the frolicsome farthing in a single establisment, the Pottinger 
mansion would not have been won without more extensive operations. 
Chippering, however, had always an eye for encouraging pushing young 
men ; and the pushing young men used to go forth from the Chippering 
warehouse and settle in improving towns — some as partners of existing 
haberdashers, and some as newly established warehousemen, whose stock 
was Chippering’s, and whose proflts mainly became Chippering’s ; and 
the frolicsome farthing in the case of failure was the principal creditor. 
It became, in course of time, a question in the Chippering mind whether 
failure was not more profitable than the success of those pushing young 
men, for after one misfortune they always began again on harder terms, 
resulting in more abundant accumulations to the parent establishment, 
which in time became a sort of octopus, so far-reaching, tenacious, and 
ravenous were its habits. 

Thus it had come to pass that Alfred Chippering was able to absorb 
The Beeches, and in the hall of The Beeches he waited, in a white waist- 
coat and long frock coat, precisely as if he had been walking the shop, 
and quite unlike an ancestral Pottinger, but withal a paragon of punctu- 
ality, eager to do his duty by his niece on this July evening, and remon- 
strate with her as became an uncle who was not a Pottinger. 

Mrs. Chippering was in the drawing-roomj tall and angular, with side 
curls and combs of imitation tortoise-shell, surmounted by a lace cap 
decorated with lilac, and wearing a dark green alpaca dress of severe cut, 
for Mrs. Chippering had been all her life engaged in restraining the 
frolicsome farthing within the barrier of the Chippering threshold. 

Miss Chippering was there, too, aged twenty-five, and still romantic; 


8 


THE VEILED HAND 


for although lier mouth was large and straight, and her cheeks were a 
little puffy, she had a glistening gray eye that sparkled at the mere men- 
tion of knights in armor or their modern equivalent, and looked forward 
to an elopement as the hope of her life. She had been theoretically 
familiar with ladies’ bowers, guitars, and silken ladders, from early child- 
hood ; and had nurtured a poetic nature on current literature in three 
volumes and penny numbers. She was even now, as they waited Muriel 
for prayers, reading “The Last Love” with painful shudderings. Her 
name was Amy. She was short of stature, after her father, with light 
brown hair, after her mother, and she was given to much sighing, being 
still unsought. 

But Mr. Chippering waited in vain ; for Muriel had found her way 
through the by-paths into the conservatory, put her hat upon a chair, 
and stood just outside the drawing-room entrance to the conservatory, 
waiting the summons for prayers. And this had happened because aus- 
terity breeds cunning and mechanical devotion, subterfuge and dissimula- 
tion. The frolicsome farthings had opened the Pottinger portals, but 
they were still commonplace copper. 

Among the expedients had recourse to by Mrs. Chippering for re- 
straining the frolicsome farthings within the Chippering coffers had been 
the newspaper, daily or weekly. It was cheaper as a covering material 
even than job lots; for no matter how “enormous” the sacrifice of the 
haberdasher, they were poor job lots that did not fetch three farthings a 
yard. So newspapers were used to cover the drawing-room pictures, and 
protect the paint of the Venetian blinds, and save the mantel-board from 
being marked by the ornaments ; and every morning and evening when 
summoned to prayers the three domestics each bore her own newspaper 
to sit upon, that the garments of the kitchen should not soil the chairs 
of the drawing-room. 

The patience of Mr. Chippering being exhausted, the bell was rung, 
and the three bearers of newspapers appeared at one door as Muriel 
entered at the other, to the confusion of the head of the house and her 
own complete evasion of all questioning. In a very few minutes she 
escaped to her own room to look out on the night and dream of the 
morrow. 

Who can describe for the comprehension of man the marvellous beauty 
of the horizon looked upon by a girl whose tender feet are just stepping 
on the threshold of the great world ? It is all golden, just veiled by an 
azure mist — an atmosphere suggestive of the opal, iridescent, fugitive, 
dazzling. It is nothing definite, nothing tangible, nothing even dimly 
visible to be spoken of in common speech, but much that for beauty is 
incomparable, for purity immaculate, for hope indelible. It is all without 
blemish ; it is essentially to be desired ; it is a haven from all distresses, 


THE SUCCESSORS TO THE POTTINGERS 


9 


a rest from all fatigue, a glorious sanctuary, perchance for indolence, for 
the laving of hands in fragrant waters, for the inhaling of sweet odors. 

It was all this and more in the dream of Muriel, looking out upon the 
hazy landscape, where the distant trees broke the starry sky line. Even 
her lover’s passion, anger, distress, injustice, all were glozed over with a 
sheen of glorious exultation, for were these invectives and declamations 
not strong and great, were they not grand, and hers? Were not these 
dread emotions provoked by her and because of her, and was not she 
alone of all the world the only one who could allay the passion of her 
lover’s heart? In very deed it was so; and all these upheavings of a 
strong man’s soul were hers — her possession, her creation — and she was 
proud, and gloried in the resplendent future. 

It is so the mirage attracts, for the colors are strong and sometimes 
brilliant, although perhaps a little garish to the sober and the hlaze in 
their splendid flickerings and gyrations. 


Chapter III 


AMY CHIPPERING IS PROVOKED TO ENVY 

Mr. Chippering was shaving when next raorning the partner of his 
triumphs and his cares invaded the sanctuary of the razor with trouble 
writ upon her countenance, and bearing a paper in her hand. 

There is scarcely anything in the whole conglomerate of human affairs 
associated with so many emotions as the act of shaving. It is danger- 
ous and troublesome ; yet it is one of the earliest ambitions of youth, and 
few who have experienced its miseries ever relinquish the fascination it 
exercises. It is a solemn, serious, and, in many cases, a secret rite. It is 
always a silent function, and inopportune intrusion is frequently followed 
by a catastrophe, anathema, and even bloodi It is not, therefore, amaz- 
ing that Mr. Alfred Chippering was startled by the reflection in his glass 
of a wild-looking head decorated with curl-papers and a frilled nightcap, 
that he cut himself, that he used bad language when he was able to speak, 
and that Mrs. Chippering exhibited a ready penitence. 

“My dear Mrs. Chip, why do you do these things?” he asked, queru- 
lously. “You know I cannot bear any one near me when I’m shaving.” 

“ Well, dear, I couldn’t help it.” 

“ My dear, don’t be absurd ; you could help it.” 

“I couldn’t, dear; Muriel’s run away.” 

“ Well, that’s some consolation,” said the haberdasher, fitting on a piece 
of court-plaster. 

“ My dear, how can you say it’s a consolation ?” 

“ How ? Why, if she’s run away, she’s off our hands, isn’t she ? Surely 
that’s a blessing. We’ve no more responsibility.” 

He made this remark holding on to his chin, with the piece of court- 
plaster under his forefinger. 

“ But think of the example to Amy, dear.” 

“ Don’t trouble yourself ; she won’t follow it. What’s the girl run away 
for?” 

“ To be married, she says.” 

“ Excellent! Any address?” 

“ Not a hint.” 

“ Very good. Thank God that’s off our minds.” 

“ Wretch !” exclaimed the lady, and left the room. 

“ Now, Mrs. Chip’s a curious sort of woman,” soliloquized her spouse. 


AMY CHIPPERING IS PROVOKED TO ENVY 


11 


still holding onto the sticking-plaster, but withal in a kindly and cheer- 
I fill humor. “What can she mean by starting these curious feelings 
I towards the girl? She’s nothing to do with her. The girl is on my 
side of the house, and I’m the person to have feelings about her disap- 
‘ pearance ; but I haven’t, not a rap. No !” 

The soliloquy was interrupted by the process of dressing. Mr. Chip- 
, pering took up his necktie. It was a curious structure: striped silk 
; stretched on canvas and contrived to represent a knot, in which a pin 
was placed under the pretence that it was holding it together, while as a 
I matter of fact the whole arrangement was a modern make-believe neck- 
tie, designed to conceal flannel shirts, and made by the gross with rigid 
accuracy. The thing seemed to please the haberdasher, however, and 
; gave his thoughts a new turn. He balanced it in his hand and called it 
“ a good line,” which, in the language of his kind, means a large order or 
a successful piece of business. 

“ Ah !” said he, “ I wish I had as many guineas as I have sold neck- 
ties.” Then, continuing his ruminations, he said, “ So, she’s gone. 
Gone to be married. Gone for good. That’s all right. Now Mrs. 
Chip is queer, but I suppose she don’t know.” 

What she did not know was that a little matter of £3000 had come 
into her husband’s hands with his niece, without writing or obligation, 
and while on the one hand the £3000 had proved very useful in business, 
it bad justified the commercial conscience of Mr. Chippering in treating 
his niece as one of his own household equally with his daughter. Simi- 
larly, his commercial conscience enabled him to regard her sudden de- 
parture as complete absolution from anything in the nature of claims or 
responsibility on his part, with the additional advantage that so long as 
she remained a fugitive and undiscovered he was still further absolved 
from doing what other less accurate people would regard as common jus- 
tice, by handing over the capital sum. The idea of going in pursuit or 
taking measures for her recovery never entered his head. 

“ Going to be married,” said he, pursuing his reflections. “ Then she’ll 
have a husband to look after her. That will be excellent. He’ll have to 
keep her. But perhaps she isn’t going to get married ; perhaps she’s 
making a mistake. So much the worse for her, and so much the better 
for me ; she won’t come back.” 

By this time he had got his coat on, and had made a final examination 
of his court-plaster. He looked at himself in the glass from top to toe, 
and, seeming to approve the general appearance — though as a matter of 
art it is doubtful whether any one else would — he went down to breakfast 
uncommonly well satisfied with himself and his affairs, commercial and 
domestic. 

His amiability was not reciprocated in the breakfast-room. Mrs. Chip- 
pering’s anger bad not subsided ; it had increased, even to the point of 


12 


THE VEILED HAND 


speechlessness. This calamitous condition of things had arisen from the 
perversity of her daughter, who had exhibited the most extraordinary 
irritation on hearing the news of her cousin’s reprehensible behavior. It 
is true she had expressed her indignation, but it was the protest of envy 
rather than of condemnation, and took expression in the monosyllable 
“ beast,” which was not only unladylike and inconsistent with the dignity 
of the family of The Beeches, but conveyed too accurately the condition 
of her mind on the subject of clandestine interviews and elopements. 
Though hard and unsympathetic, Mrs. Chippering was really anxious 
about the welfare of those for whom she was in any way responsible, 
and was honestly distressed at the discovery of the morning and the un- 
gracious reflections of her household on the subject. She did not reason 
about the matter; she could not even express her anxiety in becoming 
language, and may not have been 'Conscious of it as the deflnite cause of 
her distress ; but the feeling vvas within her, and colored all her thoughts 
and conversation for the time being, and made her thoroughly mis- 
erable. 

Chippering, on the contrary, was elated ; remarked upon his appetite, 
which was prodigious ; read his letters, which seemed to be pleasing ; and 
discussed politics as disclosed in the morning paper. The absence of re- 
sponse failed to damp his spirits, and he resolutely shut his eyes to the 
moroseness of his daughter and the rising anger of his wife. 

The difficulty of carrying on a one-handed conversation, even though 
assisted by a morning paper and half a dozen letters, was enormous ; but 
the little man maintained a running commentary upon public affairs with 
amazing perseverance, and every now and then asked his wife a question 
upon some out-of-the-way subject, looking at her as if he would say, “ I 
know what you’re thinking about, but I decline to acknowledge that I 
do; and begin upon it if you dare.” 

Nevertheless, in course of time Mrs. Chippering did begin upon it, 
with slightly stumbling speech to be sure, showing her nervousness; and 
Amy listened with pent-up anger, as if her cousin had eloped with the 
only remaining knight of chivalry in all the world, and had left her in 
chains in the castle of desolation for all time. 

“Do you intend to take no steps to find your niece?” asked Mrs. Chip- 
pering. 

“ I shall expect a letter to-morrow, my dear,” was the unconcerned 
reply. 

“ Is it possible you feel no anxiety ?” inquired Mrs. Chippering. 

“Now look at that!” exclaimed the haberdasher, pointing to a portion 
of his necktie, a long narrow strip covered with a row of eyelet-holes, 
that had broken out from behind the formal decoration and exhibited it- 
self in all its naked mechanism. “ That’s the third time this has oc- 
curred, and with two different neckties. Most annoying. I’ve got a 


13 


AMY CHIPPERING IS PROVOKED TO ENVY 

thousand gross of them, Mrs. Chip, and if they go like this they’ll be a 
dead loss.” 

He was genuinely annoyed. His concern took the form of mental 
arithmetic. He worked out, with surprising rapidity, the precise num- 
I ber of farthings he would lose if he had to make a reduction to his re- 
1 tailers on account of this distressing failure in eyelet-holes, and the do- 
mestic misfortune was instantly thrust out of all possible regard, and 
reduced to its proper proportions as a thing of no consequence as com- 
: pared with neckties. 

i “ Why, it’s a dreadful business. I must go up to town about it at 
once. Think, my dear ; a thousand gross, and liable to go like this.” 

“How can they be a dead loss,” asked Mrs. Chippering, snappishly, 

: “ when the things have to be sold before the people find out they’re bad ?” 

1 “ Do you think,” he responded, “ I’m going to have our house asso- 

‘ ciated with a reputation for obviously defective necktfes? We have a 
conscience, Mrs. Chip, and don’t sell bad goods if we know it.” 

Mrs. Chippering’s anger expressed itself in a spasm and a grunt, fol- 
lowed by the crushing refiection that it was a pity her husband didn’t 
bring his conscience home with him, to which Mr. Chippering replied 
with “Drat the woman!” and, full of anxiety arising from his discov- 
ery, he hurried out of the room to make preparations for departure. As 
The Beeches was fully two miles from the railway station, he sent a mes- 
sage to his coachman to have the carriage ready at once. Back came the 
answer in two minutes that Slant was very sorry, but master couldn’t 
i have it. 

Now what could possibly be the meaning of that message, asked Mr. 
Alfred Chippering, proprietor of The Beeches, wholesale haberdasher 
I notwithstanding. 

“ Send Slant here. No, I’ll go to him. Fll see what it means.” 

And he went, carrying with him his umbrella as indicating that he was 
' ready to start that instant and expected to do so. 

Slant was a superior person — a coachman of repute, and with dignity 
becoming his office. His employer found him in his shirt-sleeves, with 
his hands in the pockets of his drab breeches, and chewing a straw as he 
stood on the threshold of the stable. His hat and drab gaiters gave char- 
acter to his appearance, and he was a figure fully in keeping with the 
I magnificent proportions of the offices over which he presided. Mr. Al- 
fred Chippering discovered a sense of modesty and bashfulness as he 
approached him, but put on an air of bravado as he asked, 

“ Well, Slant, why can’t I have my carriage ?” 

“ No horses, sir.” 

; “What?” 

“ No horses, I say, sir. One’s cast a shoe, and t’other's got a cold and 
is off his feed.” 


14 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ Can’t you get the shoe put on ?” 

“No, sir; this is the day the farrier does the Pilton horses, and he 

won’t be back till seven to-night.” ^ 

All these statements were delivered with stern deliberation. Slants 
position was unassailable, and the irritation of the haberdashei was 
becoming acute. 

“Do you mean to tell me the Marquis is too ill to go out?” he asked. 

The horses were named the Marquis and the Marchioness, and the 
haberdasher liked to name them whenever he had a chance. He liked 
the sound of the names ; and as he rolled them out he felt as if he were 
intimately associated with the peerage at large. 

“ I wouldn’t ’a said so if it wasn’t true,” replied Slant, with a touch of 
reproachfulness in his voice. “ The Marquis is a val able horse, and I 
wouldn’t take the responsibility of ’aving’im out in ’is present state. I’ll 
say he’s a val’abfe horse, Mr. Chippering,” he repeated, with a slight turn ' 
of the head, and intimating thereby that he was making a great conces- 
sion in admitting the excellence of anything on the premises. ' 

Mr. Chippering, failing to observe this, asked, 

“ Now don’t you think it’s a very extraordinary thing that, with a couple 
of good horses in the stable, I never seem to be able to drive when I want 
to?” 

“ No, Mr. Chippering, I don’t,” said Slant, with a patronizing manner. 

“ I don’t consider it nowise extraordinary, not when you’ve only got two ' 
horses. Two horses ain’t enough to keep yer goin’. Yer see,” he con- 
tinued, with growing importance, “this’ere’s a eight-stall stable, and there’s 
two loose-boxes besides, and there’s accommodation for a coachman and 
three grooms, and that’s the kind o’ establishment as is nateral and proper, 
and what a gentleman as ’as The Beeches ought to keep up.” 

Mr. Chippering’s bashfulness and modesty at this point approached 
humiliation and shame. He found himself in the presence of one of the 
most inexorable of British institutions, a veritable stone-wall that his head 
was not strong enough to level and his short legs unfitted to scale. Had 
he been in one of his many warehouses, standing upon a pedestal of cot- ‘ 
ton reels, he would have made short work of the menial Slant, chewing 
his straw, scratching his head, and delivering himself with all the confi- 
dence of a professor on the social necessities of The Beeches, and point- 1 
ing out to the wealthy haberdasher how very far short he was of the Pot- ! 
tingers in point of tone and style and recognition of the dignity and status 
of the family coachman. As it was, he felt wholly unable to make an ; 
adequate answer. He looked askance at his monitor, and took refuge ' 
in a question. He was on the eve of a sarcasm reflecting on the profess- 1 
or’s presumption, but even this indication of a rebellious spirit vanished, 
and in the mildest accents he queried, i 

“You want more horses?” ' 


AMY CHIPPERING IS PROVOKED TO ENVY 


15 


“Yes, sir; that’s it. A pair of good stout cobs, fifteen ’and, and a 
pony for the luggage cart, which we ain’t got at present. That would 
I you don’t ride; and a groom and a ’elper.” 

Chippering w^as about to retort, but a glance at Slant’s hat caused him 
to turn aside, biting his lip ; and with a long-drawn breath he walked 
across the court with as much appearance of unconcern as he could 
muster. 

A demand from one of his managers for three more shop-walkers and 
another dozen “young persons” for the counter was to him about the 
' measure of the extravagant demand made on him by his Master of the 
Horse ; but having assumed a position involving a Master of the Horse, 
his practical common-sense told him he should concede his master’s de- 
mands or resist them, or altogether retreat from the position. The in- 
evitable three courses were open to him ; but his mind, at the sight of 
Slant’s hat, was unequal to the task of determining which he would take. 

Slant’s hat had been the subject of rumor in the household of The 
Beeches for some time past. Slant had expressed his opinion on the 
question involved to his wife Mary during the repose of the evening in 
the rooms over the coach-house, as the hat hung upon a peg in full view 
of Slant, in his shirt-sleeves, smoking his pipe, and much disturbed in 
his mind on the subject. The hat, as it hung upon the peg when the 
I great question was first raised in the mind of Slant, was adorned by a 
j cockade. Mr. Chippering observed at the close of his interview with 
Slant that the cockade was gone, and he knew from this that Slant’s 
mind had been made up on the subject, and that he had, moreover, taken 
I action. 

I “ Mary,” said Slant, on the memorable evening when he took action, 

I “ I’ve always behaved honest and straight, and I ain’t a-going to begin 
I otherwise now. That cockade has got to come out.” 

I And out it came. It was carefully wrapped in paper and put away in 
I a drawer with the company spoons, to be produced when required, if 
! Mr. Chippering should ever be bold enough to ask for it, which Slant 
assured Mary, from what he had seen of him, he very much doubted. 

The resolution was painful, but Slant was firm. From his earliest 
' boyhood he had protested against the assumption of the cockade by the 
I unauthorized ; he had scoffed at transgressors, and revelled in the distinc- 
tion which his status had accorded him. The sacredness of the right to 
the cockade had become an article of faith with him, and being an article 
of faith he would stand by it at all cost, and with as much firmness as 
if it represented the whole thirty-nine articles rolled into one. His status 
was depreciated, and the cockade must go. 

Slant’s views on the cockade and the presumption of the haberdasher, 
who, poor man, had sinned through invincible ignorance, had filtered 
upward from the domestics to the ears of Mrs. Chippering, and had 


16 


THE VEILED HAND 


been communicated by her, with much misgiving, to her spouse. He 
received the correction with meekness, but being unused to confession, 
brushed the matter aside as an annoyance that had best be forgotten. 
Slant, however, did not forget. The haberdasher was rudely reminded 
of the stern morality of his coachman by a practical rebuke, which heaped 
up the measure of his morning’s distress, already full to the brim with 
defective neckties, a chiding wife, and an insuflScient equipage. The ' 
disappearance of his niece was a small matter ; but these were flaws in the J 
pedestal and crown of his ambition, and must be mended. I 

A thousand gross of imperfectly devised neckties meant not making j 
money. At insatiable coachman meant getting rid of money. The inci- 
dent of this second evil was the cause of the first, and both were the 
fruits of manorial proprietorship, with humiliation in a stable-yard 
thrown in. Mr. Alfred Chippering ruminated on the situation while i 
being driven to the railway station in a hired fly from the Bull Inn, and | 
he mentally added the bill for the fly to his calculations. He ruminated 
all the way to town in the railway train, and reminded himself that he 
travelled first-class, and put the difference between that and third-class 
down to the same heavy account of manorial proprietorship. The loss 
of his niece was not much of a discount from The sum total of what had 
befallen him ; and enduring to the full the misery resulting from frus- 
trated hope, he resolved to let The Beeches and return to his warehouse; 
for while the spending of money gives pleasure to many, the accumula- 
tion of it is to the few a joy inexpressible. 


1 


Chapter IV 


PURSUITS VARIOUS 

Though not in pursuit, the haberdasher followed on the trail of his 
I niece. Early risers had remarked a high dog-cart on the London road, 

‘ drawn at a smart pace by a sixteen-hand bay horse of surprising action, 
j There were two young men in front and a groom behind, he would have 
li been told if he had asked, but he had other things to think about — neck- 
I ties and coachmen and horses of his own, and sundry urgent and im- 
perious questions of social economy grouped round an initial problem of 
far-reaching application — why, indeed, a man cannot make money effect- 
ively, and also spend it properly at the same time. Mr. Alfred Chipper- 
ing had got his first glimpse of the fact that it takes a man’s whole time 
to make “ an appearance that in fact it was easy for Chippering to sup- 
plant Pottinger, but not by any means easy to be both Chippering and 
Pottinger at the same time. 

Mr. Alfred Chippering, therefore, made no inquiries leading to the 
knowledge of the presence of the bay horse of surprising action near his 
park gates, about half -past five that morning. Geoffrey was there, 
dressed in a heavy drab coat with large buttons, and holding another on 
his arm — a thorough-going driving-coat that made his slim figure look 
as bulky as a stage-coach driver’s. He wore a low-crowned felt-hat, and 
round his neck was a blue silk muffler. He was, of course, before his 
time, and of course impatient and inclined to be angry. 

“What’s the time now, Trinder?” he asked of the groom, who stood 
at the horse’s head. 

“Five twenty -five, sir,” said Trinder, sullenly and immovably, and 
standing in front of the horse with his hands clasped, as if he had been 
doing duty in Belgravia. 

Geoffrey Delfoy started impatiently. 

“How do you know without looking?” he asked. 

“Counted, sir,” said Trinder, still without moving, and apparently 
without any intention whatever of moving until official duties required 
it. He was a stolid boy, with eyes that seldom opened wide, and a 
mouth that drooped at the left corner even in this time of blooming 
youth ; for his cheeks were ruddy, and mental qualities had not had time 
to work upon the nerves and muscles of the face, and show to all whose 
eyes could see the shape and quality of his latent soul. Geoffrey liked 


18 


THE VEILED HAND 


him because he was sullen, and because he made no friends, and because 
he didn’t whistle or laugh, and was generally silent. 

There was a rustling and a swift pattering of feet, a closing of wide 
open arms, a swift embrace, and then some eager whispering. The coat 
was a necessity for warmth, he said — just like his own, with thick velvet 
collar and large buttons, and also the heavy blue mufSer and a shooting- 
cap instead of the large leghorn. It took only three-quarters of a minute 
to arrange matters, or rather to hurry them forward with a rush, and 
they were off, while Trinder ran behind and sprang at full trot to his 
step, for, with all his sullenness, Trinder would rather have died than 
take his seat except at full trot. 

“ Oh, Geoffrey, I am so fearful,” said Muriel, as they started on the 
road. 

“ Of the pace ?” asked Geoffrey. “ It’s not nice to loiter.” 

“ No, not that. I am trusting to you — oh, so much.” 

“ Yes, dearest — steady, Peter,” he added, as the horse seemed to 
swerve about three inches to the right, and perhaps the off rein had 
something to do with it. 

“ We are quite safe ; but we must not talk just now, till Peter is 
quieter,” he said. 

Away they sped through the pearl gray mist of the early morning at 
a good ten miles an hour. The road was good, and the situation exhila- 
rating. The glinting of the sunlight through the thick plantations and 
the scent from the teeming earth were sufficient for the time to distract 
the imagination and dissipate anxiety ; but there were every now and 
then some sad misgivings, and the gentle face under the shooting-cap 
was very grave, for the little woman was revolving hopes and fears and 
framing phrases that she would speak to Geoffrey, aihd yet dared not, 
for love forbade her to doubt. And had she not already said she trust- 
ed him ? 

They breakfasted at a river-side inn, where the people rose early, and 
where the landlady knew how to make an omelet. The breakfast was 
an anxious time. Those phrases that Muriel dared not speak shaped 
themselves continually in all manner of ways, and intruded themselves 
between the eggs and the buttered toast and the cup of tea, and most of 
all when the salt was spilled ; but Geoffrey’s devotion was beyond praise, 
and he maintained such a bustling activity in the matter of breakfast, 
and seeing the horse was attended to, and asking Muriel whether she 
was sure she was quite v/arm, and whether she would now like to go 
without the overcoat and resume her leghorn hat, and in all things be- 
haved with such consummate propriety and such perfect tenderness that 
she began to think her anxieties reprehensible, and resolved to be cheer- 
ful and bright and altogether hopeful. 

She then discovered thaT; subsidiary to these more personal feelings 


PURSUITS VARIOUS 


19 


were others involving eonsideration for those she had left behind. Anx- 
iety as to the pain they would feel at her departure began to assert itself 
as concern for her own future was dispelled ; and although, if she had 
been able to analyze her past relations with the family of The Beeches, 

! she would have found little upon which to ground a case against herself, 
absconding was a terrible fact. Moreover, there had always been a 
tacit sense of relationship between her and her aunt that found expres- 
sion in simple acts of consideration, and almost of tenderness, uncouth 
and graceless on the part of her aunt, but understood by her, and cher- 
ished as much as if they had been animated with the most abundant ex- 
- pressions of devotion. Muriel sighed as she thought of Aunt Chipper- 
! ing, and hoped it would not be long before she could allay the anxiety 
she knew she must be feeling. 

Geoffrey heard the sigh, being very much on the alert, and suspecting 
it arose from feelings far nearer a matter for his concern, hurried to 
Muriel’s side, and giving her a sounding kiss, declared she looked more 
charming than ever he had seen her, and bustled about with a breezy 
■ air, making final preparations for again getting on the road. 

It was now approaching eight o’clock on a fine summer’s morning; so 
the cart was brought round, and with a cheerful good-bye to the land- 
lady who knew how to make omelets, Geoffrey gave Peter the word, 
and away they went. 

There was just enough wind to temper the heat of the sun, the break- 
fast had been a good one, ahd an equable physical condition had made 
Muriel more amenable to the cheery infiuences inseparable from a smart 
drive in agreeable company. 

“ Now, Muriel, I see my way. I begin to live !” said Geoffrey. “ From 
this day,” he exclaimed, “ I shall date every one of my future triumphs !” 

This superb egotism was responded to by Muriel’s most trusting 
smile, without the remotest shadow of doubt, and with unalloyed glad- 
ness. 

“ See me insult Peter,” said Geoffrey, with genuine gayety. “ See 
how indignant he will be,” and he cracked the whip near the horse’s 
shoulder. 

Peter gave a lunge and shook his head by way of protest at the mere 
suggestion of a whip in his case, and Geoffrey chuckled with pride at 
the growing pace. Then he fell to talking of the future — the cottage 
on the river, the chambers in town, a pair of ponies for Muriel to drive, 
a boat anchored at the bottom of the lawn, and all those agreeable con- 
ditions that comprise nineteenth century happiness without state. 

By nine o’clock they had arrived at the railway station, where Peter 
and the dog-cart were left in charge of Trinder, as the rest of the journey 
was to be made by train. 

It was a road-side station of no pretensions to business beyond shunt- 


20 


THE VEILED HAND 


ing coal wagons on to a branch line, and had been chosen by Geoffrey 
for reasons which will appear hereafter, and of which speed was not the 
first consideration. They had a quarter of an hour to wait before the 
arrival of the next train, which was a subject for mutual congratulation 
in respect that it was not longer, and of compliment to Peter for having 
brought them over the ground so quickly. Geoffrey Delfoy was not 
as a rule given to the love or praise of animals; he regarded them, in- 
deed, as things to be used or abused as the humor of the moment sug- 
gested, and had Muriel known him better she would have been surprised 
at the continuous references to Peter: his style, his action, his manifold 
excellences, including his price and the price that had been refused for- 
him — all points of more or less importance, but of no consequence what- 
ever as compared with the grave subject with which she was battling, 
and that would intrude itself despite all her efforts to repress it. And 
if she had spoken, her Geoffrey would have gayly brushed the speech 
aside and talked the more of Peter — and was he not her Geoffrey ? 

They took a walk on the platform and found it deserted, with the 
exception of a solitary figure in the distance — a clergyman, apparently, 
from his broad-brimmed Hat, his long frock-coat, and loose black cloth 
trousers. He had his back towards them, and was reading a newspaper. 
Geoffrey made a joke. 

“ What a pity I haven’t the license here ; we might be married in the 
village church.” 

Muriel blushed and laughed, but the suggestion gave her immense 
satisfaction, Geoffrey had spoken of the license; that was a great deal. 

They walked along towards the broad-brimmed hat and long frock- 
coat. Their owner turned languidly to regard them, when his face lighted 
up. It was a large puffy face, and seemed to require a deal of lighting 
up; but the sight of Delfoy excited its owner, and advancing with a long 
stride and his right hand out-stretched, he exclaimed, 

“ Delfoy, my dear friend ! Impossible ! A most providential meet- 
ing.” 

Geoffrey did not seem to think so ; he retreated half a pace, and 
looked amazJed. He observed that the stranger was slightly deformed. 
He seemed bigger on the right side and high-shouldered on the right 
side, and his right shoulder seemed to have grown out, and his right 
leg seemed stiff and wanting in freedom of movement. His cheeks were 
puffed out, and he was afflicted with a nervous twitching of the mouth. 

“Ah, my dear friend!” he exclaimed again, pulling himself together 
and crumpling the newspaper all in a heap on his breast, “ you do not 
know me ; you have forgotten me.” Then, advancing as suddenly as 
before, he again thriTst out his right hand, and with a curious contortion 
of his face, probably an attempt at a smile, he said, in a loud whisper 
“Brill.” ^ 


PURSUITS VARIOUS 


21 


“What! You, Brill!” cried Delfoy, with a loud laugh that he sud- 
denly stopped with guilty consciousness. “ You have changed.” 

Brill smiled again, with more pronounced contortion, as Delfoy re- 
garded him with a mixture of admiration and amusement ; but he was 
careful to keep his face away from the scrutiny of Muriel after he had 
recognized his friend. Thus, standing at ease, very much lop-sided, Brill 
said, 

“ I fear I have changed. Disappointment. Want of success. Want 
of recognition. But you interest me very much — very much indeed,” 
he added, looking at Delfoy with the eye of a connoisseur in humanity, 
and the eye twinkled and the mouth twitched, and again he held the 
paper all crumpled up on his breast as he enjoyed the sight of his 
friend. 

Muriel was standing a little in the rear, somewhat disappointed to find 
the clergyman who might have married them if they had had the license 
was so ill-shapen and had such odd ways. She bowed gracefully, how- 
ever, and smiled when Geoffrey introduced them, and blushed when he 
said that his friend Brill, being in the Church, might do two forlorn 
lovers a good turn within the next few days. Mr. Brill said he would 
be much pleased, with a sly smirk at Muriel, wdio had become very happy 
by this time, and who, upon reflection and in view of Geoffrey’s remark, 
thought Mr. Brill, despite his curious shape and singular manner, a rather 
agreeable man, and also concluded that she joined with him in thinking 
that the meeting was quite providential. 

“This is one of that class of meeting, my dear Delfoy,” remarked 
Brill, with his head slightly on one side, away from the high shoulder, 
“that makes one reflect. Do you know, I have been going over all my 
college acquaintances this morning one by one, and ticking them off my 
fingers, thus,” and he used one black glove to tick off the other black 
fingers. “ I have been ticking them pff to see which w’ould be most 
capable of assisting me in a matter of grave importance ; and I fixed on 
you. I fixed on you, and here you are ! Surely, now, there’s something 
superusual in that — something that psychology has not fathomed — in 
our being drawn together at this hour, and at this curious, out-of-the-way 
spot — a deserted railway station.” 

“Well, it is strange,” said Delfoy, laughing, and Muriel took'his arm 
and laughed too. 

“ Now, I dare say you’ll be curious to learn what this grave matter is 
that I need your assistance in. Very simple ; quite commonplace. A 
living. Merely that. I want somebody to apply a lever to the Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury — to give him a fillip, a nudge, a gentle reminder 
that genius is at his command, and your father’s influence, Delfoy, is the 
very thing.” 

“Certainly, certainly,” said Delfoy, with alacrity; “you shall have it, 


THE VEILED HAND 


22 

Brill. We’ll settle the programme on the road. You’ll travel with us, 
and I’ll make a note of the particulars.” 

“ Right,” said Mr. Brill. “ I’m sure it’s a providential meeting.” 

And on the journey he explained the difficulties he had met with in 
his'profession, the misfortunes resulting from the neglect of genius, and 
the necessary blindness of archbishops. 

“You see, Delfoy, by the time a man has become an archbishop he’s 
done. He has been looking about him so infernally sharp all his life to 
get to the top of the tree that he’s stone blind when he get’s there, and 
the new genius languishes — languishes ^^^together,” he repeated, clasping ^ 
his hands upon his breast, as indicating the specific genius that lan- 
guished ; and then, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm and a revival of 
the excruciating smile, he clasped Delfoy, sitting opposite to him, by the , 
knee, and waving his left hand towards Muriel, be said, “ You, miss — 
ah, miss — ” ;; 

“Balmain,” put in Delfoy. 

“You, Miss Balmain — soon to be Mrs. Delfoy, eh ? — will you join with g 
me? Nay, you will have to join with me in watching the career of a 'll 
great statesman of the future.” Then, with a further instalment of the 
smile, he continued, “ You, Delfoy, you’re the man to be envied. Pol- 
itics, the platform, the broad phases of social relationships, the common, . 
the general, the universal, it’s all before you ; and, if you allow us, we 
shall enjoy the privilege of helping to place you on the pinnacle.” 

Delfoy responded with a whimsical grin, no more; and the orator, i 
claiming the privilege-of eccentric pronunciation, continued — 

“ I have a muttive for this.” 

Then he paused and gazed at Delfoy admiringly. 

“ My muttive,” he continued, “ is simple. If you are on the pinnacle, 
the archbishop can no longer ignore genius. He will place it.” 

“ Aye, aye,” said Delfoy, with the same whimsical grin on his face. 

“ That’s a bargain. The pinnacle and the archbishop. Remember that, 
Muriel — and here’s Paddington.” 

As they stepped from the tram Geoffrey took Muriel nervously by the i 
arm, and pointed down the platform at Mr. Alfred Chippering, hurrying ^ 
along at a breakneck speed for the first hansom, in pursuit — not of Mu- 
riel, as Delfoy thought, but of dealers in neckties. 


! 


Chapter V 
DOCTORS’ COMMONS 

Delfoy had made up his mind in the course of the morning that no 
present, however costly, would give to Muriel the satisfaction she would 
feel at the sight of the marriage license. He was keenly alive to her 
unexpressed anxieties, and he had reasons of his own for allaying them. 
He accordingly set out as early as possible for Doctors’ Commons, and 
passed under the low archway out of St. Paul’s Church-yard with a vague 
notion that he should there find what he wanted, without, however, hav- 
ing any precise knowledge on the subject. 

He had usually associated Doctors’ Commons with the Apothecaries’ 

I Hall, the Tower of London, and the Gulf Stream, institutions of great 
' antiquity and presumed usefulness, referred to in books and casually 
I mentioned in conversation, but not presenting any definite ideas except 
I that whereas the Tower of London had to do with the chopping off of 
; heads, and the Apothecaries’ Hall the mending of bodies, so Doctors’ 
j Commons was a place for assisting people about to marry, and was noted 
for its promptitude and despatch in satisfying its customers. He was 
not, however, aware of the extreme anxiety of the two eminent compet- 
itors jn the business, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of 
London, to procure his patronage, and he was not a little surprised to 
find the emissaries of these two eminent dignitaries of the Church wait- 
ing for him under the shadow of Dean’s Court with most extraordinary 
foreknowledge of his intention, each with a white apron and a silk hat, 
and each yoluble concerning the excellences of the particular establish- 
ment he represented. 

The white apron from the Bishop of London was the first to get posses- 
sion of him, and he was just making up his mind, from the responses he 
received to inquiries, that the bishop could do his business for him sat- 
isfactorily, when the archbishop’s man came up and cast doubts upon 
the extent and variety of the goods offered by his competitor, and assured 
the gentleman that, if he wanted a real license that would serve him at 
all points and in all contingencies, then the Archbishop was the only 
man who could fit him. 

This embarrassed him a good deal — the more so because going up 
Dean’s Yard with the archbishop’s man on one side and the bishop’s on 
the other seemed to him to convey to the passers-by the purpose of his 


24 


THE VEILED HAND 


visit; and, inasmuch as those about to marry are, for some unaccount- 
able reason, always regarded as fit subjects for sport and ridicule, es- 
pecially to errand boys and other scoffers of tender years, he became 
annoyed, and therefore weak of judgment, and unable to determine 
whether to patronize the primate or the local practitioner. 

The disputation continued on the very door-steps of the two competing 
purveyors, the strong point of the archbishop’s man being the large as- 
sortment and special character of his goods, and the strong point of the 
bishop’s man the fact that the gentleman could be served on the ground- 
floor in his establishment instead of going up-stairs in the other. Geof- 
frey’s doubts were still further increased by the number of the notice 
boards put all over the two entrances, and the numerous brass plates, the 
inscriptions on which, referring to vicars -general, surrogates, proctors, 
and other amphibious dignitaries associated with the Law and the 
Church, embarrassed him to the point of exasperation. Suddenly, how- 
ever, he suffered himself to be controlled by the idea that the greater 
would assuredly include the less, preferred the primate, and gave the 
bishop’s man half a crown to appease his disappointment. 

He was received inside by an elderly gentleman with a bald head, a 
white necktie, and black garments, decorated about the waistcoat with 
snuff, and about the mouth with Spanish liquorice and smiles. What . 
could he do for his visitor? A license? Certainly. Was he one of the 
parties? Naturally, and necessarily, one of the parties must attend. 
Gentleman lives in the Albany? Yes. Lived there some time? Of ]1 
course. No consequence where the lady lived — Tirabuctoo or anywhere j 
else, it wouldn’t matter. 

“Just wait one minute, sir. Pray be seated.” ' 

There was evidently a fear that the customer would 'go to the other ' 
shop if he were not civilly treated, for the elderly gentleman took good • 
care to get him as far away from the door as possible, and smiled in so . 
benign a manner, and offered him snuff with such an evident desire to 
please, that Geoffrey felt he was in good hands, and had no regrets at his • 
selection. 

The necessary documents having been prepared, and the necessary 
declarations having been made, the elderly gentleman, if not so clean as 
the tout s white apron, was as gracious as any archbishop could possibly . 
be, remarked, with his blandest smile, 

“Two pounds two shillings and sixpence. Yes, sir. That is all. 
Marry to-morrow, sir? Certainly. Before twelve o’clock with this 
license. If you want to marry this evening, sir, you must go up-stairs. | 
Proctor on the premises. Everything provided. To-morrow will do ? ^ 
Certainly, sir. Good-afternoon.” ^ 

The elderly gentleman showed him out, all smiles and bows, conveying 
the general impression that he would feel obliged if his customer would 


DOCTORS’ COMMONS 


25 


send all his friends to his warehouse, where the goods were of the “ best 
possible quality, economical in price, and served with promptitude and 
despatch.” 

Delfoy, thinking to avoid the touts in the court leading to St. Paul’s 
Church-yard, went in the other direction, but was chagrined to meet the 
cormorants who had before disputed possession of him calmly gazing 
down Carter’s Lane, having taken a turn in The Swan with Two Necks 
to drink his health, but they vouchsafed him only a friendly nod, having 
no further interest in a man whose fate in all probability was fixed for 
their time at least. 


t 


Chapter VI 
AN IMPROVING NEIGHBORHOOD 


Muriel was looking from a French window upon the River Thames, 
with Waterloo Bridge on the left, the shot tower opposite, the Charing* 
Cross railway bridge on the right, and immediately in front and below 
her was the place where Cleopatra’s Needle now stands, but at that time^ 
all ooze and shiny rivulets at low water, edged by squalid and rickety 
sheds, dilapidated stables, wrecks of warehouses, and unwholesome gutters. 

The French window looked from Romley’s Hotel, now no more, 
swept out of existence by the necessities of the speculating contractor 
and the syndicated middleman. Romley’s Hotel was a congeries of old- 
fashioned domestic dwellings at the bottom of Sarum Street, joined to- 
gether on the inside by variously contrived doorways through the party 
walls, and on the outside by a coat of red paint, and the name Romley’s 
Hotel in very large white letters, which grew in size and especially in 
breadth as each new house was added to the warren. 

Romley’s Hotel had commenced over the way, where the late Mr. 
Romley had appropriated three houses, and then had w'alked across the 
street and appropriated four more, of which the end house with the 
French windows was the last acquisition, and by far the most distin- 
guished. It had been built in the time of the early Georges, when an ' 
architect set about the business of building a house with a sense of 
responsibility and not as a bricklayer. This part of Romley’s Hotel was 
a house of curves, with a well staircase and decorated ceilings, with al- 
coves for the reception of statuary, and rooms in suites, of all variety of 
shapes and sizes, devious corridors and unexpected passage®, but all ap- 
propriate, graceful, and of unquestionable utility. It had mahogany 
doors and high chimney-pieces and walls painted in panels. 

Romley’s Hotel, with its seclusion and quiet in the heart of London, 
was very popular with those who discovered it. They always returned 
to it, and always went to the^ame house. If their particular house was 
full they went to another grudgingly and under protest, and only on 
condition that they should go back to their own room in their own house 
at the earliest possible moment. And the chief reason it was so popular 
as a hotel was because it was not an elaborate mechanical contrivance 
for numbering the visitors and never knowing where to find them when 
they wlere wanted. 


AN IMPROVING NEIGHBORHOOD 


27 


Muriel had a companion as she looked from the French window across 
j the broad and busy river — a woman not much older than herself and 
almost as pretty, but of a different type. It was Mrs. Romley, a fair 
land graceful little widow, with the sweetest smile, Muriel thought, she 
I had ever seen. She was an elder sister in five minutes, and almost a 
confidante, but not quite. 

Mrs. Romley had known Geoffrey Delfoy as an occasional visitor, and 
when he brought Muriel to her and asked her to take care of her for a 
few days, she said she would and did. She wondered a little, and 
,|i framed a question or two which she never put, and came to the wise 
; ; conclusion that it was her duty to do her duty as far as her own re- 
! sponsibilities were concerned, and not to commence the business of con- 
‘ I sciencerkeeper for her visitors, or become the self-appointed censor of 
their acts. How much of worldly wisdom, delicacy of feeling, or gentle- 
ness and timidity entered into and controlled this conclusion it would 
be difficult to say, and perhaps all these several infiuences weighed ; but 
whatever the motives, Mrs. Romley, with the sweetest of manners, took 
Muriel in hand, and made her feel in every sense at ease. 

Geoffrey was not a resident himself at Romley ’s Hotel on this occasion. 
He proposed to stay at his chambers, and he was absent on a mission of 
the gravest importance as Muriel looked from the French window, won- 
dering how long he would be. 

He had a great many things to see to. 

He had, in the first place, so he told Mrs. Romley, to get Miss Bal- 
main’s luggage, and before they had done inspecting the river it came in 

I the shape of a large portmanteau and a lady’s dressing-bag. Actuated 
by the same caution as prevented her making Mrs. Romley a confidante, 
she treated the arrival of the luggage as a matter of course, and rejoiced 
over the contents in private. The dressing-bag contained, besides the 
whole series of silver-topped scent-bottles and ivory-handled brushes, two 
* dozen pairs of gloves, and a whole series of silk handkerchiefs of varied 
' designs and utility. The portmanteau, which the uninitiated might have 
supposed from its appearance had been in Miss Balmain’s possession for 
a year at least, though she had never seen it before, was filled with a 
complete bride’s trousseau of the most perfect description, and excited 
in her the liveliest satisfaction. Following this came two or three par- 
cels of wrappers, and about four in the afternoon Geoffrey himself rushed 
into the room in desperate haste with a ridiculously small piece of paper 
' considering its vast significance, licensing in all due form a marriage be- 
tween Geoffrey Leuchars Delfoy and Muriel Balmain. That wets de- 
lightful. 

i They then went out shopping for two hours, and by the time they re- 
i turned" to Romley’s, Muriel was not conscious of being in need of any- 
thing she had left behind her at The Beeches, and was altogether in the 


28 


THE VEILED HAND 


most jubilant spirits, trying on and packing, and in desperate haste for 
fear the bugle call, as Geoffrey had said, should sound before she was 
quite ready. 

The bugle call, however, was not sounded for three or four days. 
Sundry necessary arrangements had to be made ; the Horse Guards had 
to be pacified, the army agents to be arranged with in the matter of 
letters of credit, and although these points could, in ordinary circum- 
stances, be disposed of in a few hours, Muriel’s experience was limited, 
and Geoffrey’s assertion was quite sufficient for her. 

But on the third day Trinder arrived in Sarum Street with his master’s 
baggage on a cab, at seven o’clock in the morning, added Muriel’s to it, 
and went off to the railway station for the Calais boat with a more than 
usually morose aspect. He didn’t complain of anything ; he didn’t use , 
bad language when the boots at Romley’s dropped his end of a large 
trunk and nearly dislocated Trinder’s arm ; he scarcely spoke a word 
during the whole of the proceedings beyond the absolutely necessary ; 
and when he did make a remark it came out of the left-hand corner of 
his mouth, as if parting his lips were a waste of energy. The Romley 
boots wondered whether he was in training for solitary confinement, and 
what might be his particular fancy in the way of crime. Muriel had a 
decided aversion to him, but did not express it ; she even rebuked her- 
self for a want of amiability when she shrank on his approach. 

Shortly after Trinder had left Sarum Street there arrived a smart 
brougham, driven by a smart coachman, who circled round the lamp- 
post at the bottom of the street, peering at the houses and wondering 
which was his destination. He handed in a letter at No. 11, and remount- 
ed his box. The letter was for Muriel, and from Geoffrey Delfoy. 

“ Drive as fast as you can, dear Muriel,” he wrote, “ to the gateway of 
the Horse Guards. I shall be there, and there’s not a moment to lose. 

“G. D.” 

It was a case of hurry and bustle, without hesitation or refiection. But 
what could Geoffrey Delfoy be doing at the Horse Guards at 7.30 a.m. ? 
And yet what should Muriel know of the habits of the Commander-in- 
chief, of his staff, or of an officer about to leave on a month’s tour ? 
She made all haste ; Mrs. Romley saw her off, and smiled as she did so, 
but as the door closed she sighed and looked very, very sad. 

Geoffrey was waiting for her, looking very nice, she thought, with a 
light coat on his arm and a flower in his button-hole. 

To the Green Man,” said he to the coachman, “ as fast as you can 
go,” and they were off. 

“ The Green Man ?” said Muriel, amazed. “ What’s that ?” 

“ A public-house— the only place he knows. The chinch is not far 
from there.” 


AN IMPROVING NEIGHBORHOOD 


29 


He spoke with suppressed excitement. She felt his hand trembling 
as he held hers between them, and he seemed to have become suddenly 
pale. 

“ What is the matter?” she asked. 

He shuddered, then set his teeth and shook himself together. He tried 
to smile as he said, 

“ I’m overstrained, I think. I’ve done a great deal during these last 
three days, and now it’s over, and we are here on the road, dear Muriel, 
I collapse.” 

The Horse Guards had been worrying him, she was sure. So she com- 
forted him, and congratulated him on being free from further anxieties, 
and her assurances seemed to do him good. He was not himself, how- 
ever, and had he been on his feet he would have stamped and shaken 
himself heartily and brought his nerves to their bearings. As it was he 
sat still and trembled and looked at Muriel appealingly, and yet pityingly. 
She became seriously alarmed, and said, 

“ Geoffrey, you are ill. Look, there’s a chemist opening his shop — 
cannot he give yon something?” 

It was on the south side of Westminster Bridge, and the brougham 
was stopped. He ran back and entered the shop. An untidy-looking 
man with weak eyes and an unwholesome complexion came out of a 
back-room, wondering what such a customer could want at such an 
hour. 

“ What I want,” said Geoffrey, “ is brandy. Call it Epsom salts, and 
give me a shilling’s worth.” 

The chemist didn’t trouble to call it anything, but took the shilling. 

“ A little chill or a fright, I suppose,” said he, in an insinuating man- 
ner. “ Nothing serious, I hope. Yes, yes, we’ll soon put you right.” 

He put something with the brandy, for form’s sake, and handed it to 
his customer in a glass that one might find any day in a superior hotel 
or club smoking-room, and the contents also for the matter of that. It 
was, in fact, quite a commonplace medicine. Geoffrey Delfoy felt decid- 
edly better when he had swallowed the draught. He was well set up, 
and walked back to the brougham with a firm purpose, with no misgiv- 
ings as to his nerves or anything else whatever. He became talkative as 
regards their future, and the timidity and weakness which had formerly 
characterized his manner wholly disappeared. He vowed quite unneces- 
sarily that people should not interfere with him and his purposes in life, 
and inferentially conveyed the impression that his weakness had been 
occasioned by some desperate opposition he had encountered to his un- 
dertaking the journey on which he was bent. 

By this time they had passed through Kennington, and were training 
in a south-easterly direction towards Camberwell. They were leaving the 
houses behind them, and occasionally passed an open field with a hedge 


30 


THE VEILED HAND 


by the road-side. In some of these fields the builder was at work ; in 
others the fences were dilapidated, and boards announced that the ground 
was to be let for building purposes. They had entered upon the confines 
of an improving neighborhood, and by-and-by they drew up at the Green ■ 
Man, a small way-side public-house, designed to satisfy the wants of mar- 
ket-gardeners and small local shopkeepers, but now the resort of brick- 
layers and navvies, who were draining and road-making and digging foun- 
dations, and piling up great heaps of clay to show it was an improving 
neighborhood, and that the Green Man had seen his day. They had 
shored him up to prevent his falling into the main sewer they were dig.- 
ging out, like a large grave in which they intended to bury him and the 
fresh air, the hedge-rows and elm-trees, the larks and the swallows, no 
longer wanted in an improving neighborhood. 

The brougham was rather out of place there with the brick-bats and 
the mud and the great cart ruts. Delfoy gave his directions, and very 
soon they fioundered out of the quagmire into a region of small villas 
and terraces, doing their best to look old established and quite at home, 
but failing in point of tone, with a very narrow curb-stone, and a road- 
way of unrolled metal, and lamp-posts without burners or lanterns. A 
little way along, looking very lonely in a field, was an iron church, and 
beyond, in a planned square, was an imposing stone church, but no houses 
were near. The builders were expected to improve the neighborhood up 
to the standard of the church by-and-by, for the roads were all made. 
They were, however, very stony, as if designed for penance, and very 
square and formal for the sake of ground rents. 

The brougham stopped at the iron church, which didn’t seem to be 
much frequented, as the paths were full of weeds and the windows and 
doors far from clean. A four-wheel cab was drawn up near the church, 
with the driver reading a newspaper on the box. He was an elderly and 
red-faced man, wearing a heavy and much worn double cape that he never 
laid aside even on the hottest days on account of a tendency to rheuma- 
tism and alcoholic catarrh. His exposure and endurance were certified 
by a woe-begone hat, the nap of which had been plastered down by the 
rain of other days. His horse stood with a dejected air, as indicating a 
total loss of all interest in life, and the arrival of the smart brougham 
aroused in the pair only the most languid interest in the important trans- 
action then pending. 

On entering they found Mr. Brill at the altar, wearing a gown and a 
berretta, looking extremely solemn, and with a prayer-book in his hand. 
A gray-headed old man, with a bunch of keys in one hand and his hat 
in the other, was the only other person in the place, and a whispered con- 
versation between Brill and Delfoy resulted in summoning the cab-driver 
within the church. The ceremony was then commenced, and no time 
was lost by Mr. Brill, whose ordinary peculiarities were exaggerated by a' 


AN IMPROVING NEIGHBORHOOD 


31 


disposition to intone ; and whenever he departed from a melancholy mon- 
otone, which he much enjoyed, apparently, he made the most extraordi- 
nary and inharmonious sounds imaginable, all in the belief that he was 
a perfect exponent of the artistic in ceremonial. 

When he had finished he asked the cabman and the old man with the 
keys to accompany him to the vestry, which was a small box about eight 
feet square, furnished with a deal dressing-table, hung round with faded 
red chintz, and one chair. Here he left them to take care of his berretta, 
while he went to join those of his more immediate concern. He left 
them also a bottle of whiskey, three tumblers, and a jug of water, brought 
early from the Green Man by the gray-headed custodier of the bunch of 
keys. 

“ Delfoy, my friend,” said Brill, bustling up with a piece of blue paper, 
a penny ink-bottle, and a steel pen, “sign your names here. You’ll miss 
your train. I’ll look after the witnesses.” 

Muriel had become very grave. The ill-conditioned attendants, the 
eccentric and undignified priest, the squalor of the surroundings dis- 
tressed her. The brougham when it fetched her had been perfect, the 
meeting at the Horse Guards had been intelligible, the sudden indispo- 
sition on the journey had aroused her sympathy and excited her to active 
participation in the arrangements, but this was not the kind of wedding 
she had pictured. The trousseau, the dressing-case, the flood of wrap- 
pers and travelling garments, the supplementary dress baskets, and the 
profusion of toilet knick-knacks had created a standard from which the 
little iron church in the improving neighborhood of Myatt’s Fields was 
a sad falling off. She was gloomy and dissatisfied ; but Geoffrey signed 
with eagerness, albeit with a trembling hand, and she signed too. 

“ Let’s get away from this horrid place,” she said, and nothing more. 
How much she felt of undefined dread ; and what should cause the fear- 
ful sinking in her inmost heart, she could no more define than could the 
coachman who cracked his whip and did his duty, neither knowing nor 
caring what befel as he drove at a headlong speed to catch the Dover 
train. 

Meanwhile Mr. Brill was discharging the ceremonial hospitalities. 

“ Now, my friends,” said he, seated in the one chair, “ there’s a sover- 
eign each for you from the bridegroom. A very fine fellow is our friend 
the bridegroom, very fine and very liberal.” 

“ Quite the right sort,” said the cabman, in a hoarse whisper. “ The 
sort as suits me.” 

“ And me too,” said the old man, with a shake of the keys, which he 
never laid down. The sovereign was a happy surprise to him, and would 
prove, he knew, a perfect godsend of a Sunday’s dinner to his household, 
so he poised the tumbler of whiskey-and- water and said, “God bless ’em 
from me as is a old man and seen his day. God bless ’em,” 


32 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ Well spoken, friend,” said Mr. Brill, with increasing dignity. “ I like 
you for that. Your salutation does you honor. There’s a great future 
before that young man who has just left us. You’ll hear of him in high 
places.” Then, sinking his voice to a whisper, he added, “You know, 
friends, in a case like this there’s sometimes cause for a little quiet and 
secrecy. There are cases in which there’s a necessity for avoiding osten- 
tatious displays — you understand.” 

Mr. Brill’s speech ended with a pantomime of winks and nods ; and 
the cabman, looking into his tumbler, with a knowing smile said with 
perfect self-complacency, i 

“ JVe know, governor; ’tain’t the fust time we’ve see’d this sort of 
thing.” 1 

And he shook his head and looked into his tumbler, now only half 
full, with ineffable contempt, and drank off the remaining contents as if 
desirous of conveying that the discussion of self-evident propositions was 
a waste of time. 

“Beg pardon, sir,” said he, as he put the tumbler on the table. “No 
offence, but ain’t there no signin’ for us to do ? I remember when I took 
the missis to church there was a considerable lot o’ signin’ — quite a con- 
siderable lot.” 

The gray - headed . old man with the keys shook them, and nodded 
approvingly. 

“ Well,” said Mr. Brill, “ now you mention it, there is some signing. 
I’d really quite forgotten it. I have the document here — both docu- 
ments. Here’s the license from the vicar-general’s office in Doctors’ 
Commons, and here’s the register,” he added, producing two papers from 
his pocket. “ I’ll fetch the ink, my friends.” 

The ink was brought, and the two men signed their names, the cabman 
first and the old man afterwards. Mr. Brill put the papers back in his 
pocket-book, blinking and puffing as he did so, as if the importance of 
the matter caused him unusual excitement. 

They then had another tumbler of whiskey-and- water, remarking each 
in turn that he was sure he didn’t know, but he thought he might take 
just another; and Mr. Brill, having packed in a bag what he called the 
“props,” meaning his gown and berretta and his large black felt hat, 
emerged from the church in a long gray overcoat and a small hat of 
commonplace proportions, but much too small for his head, and as 
far removed from any clerical significance as his boots. He directed 
the cabman to drive him to the Spotted Dog in the Strand, where 
he called for a glass of gin and ginger beer, and drank it gloomily, 
standing. 

Leaving the Spotted Dog, he hurried through Holywell Street, passed 
through the gateway of Dane’s Inn, and hastened into one of the en- 
trances on the right, where he mounted to the topmost suite of chambers. 


AN IMPROVING NEIGHBORHOOD 


33 


• lie let himself in with a key, and flung the black bag on a chair, already 
littered with old newspapers and some much-worn clothes. 

It was a suite of three rooms — a sitting-room, a bedroom, and a small 
kitchen — all in a state of dirt and disorder; and from the fact that the 
frying-pan remained unwashed since the last cooking of sausages, it was 
to be presumed the laundress had ceased her attentions for some days. 
Mr. Brill was alone. 

He began by lighting a gas stove to boil the kettle, executed a double 
shuffle on the floor as evidence of glee, said “D it” with great em- 

phasis, and began taking off his clothes. The last garment that he re- 
moved, if it can be called a garment, consisted of a pad, as much as three 
inches in thickness in some parts, covering his right shoulder, blade-bone, 
and breast, and extending all down his right side to below his knee, round 
which it was strapped flrmly, so as to make the knee difficult to bend, and 
cause the manner of a stiff leg. Freeing himself from this encumbrance, 
which would have been quite sufflcient to embarrass' the most expert 
double shuffler, he poured a cup of hot- water from the kettle, and with 
its aid loosened the fastening of his glossy wig. This disclosed a snuff- 
colored head of hair, close cropped, and much more like a wig than that 
he had removed. More hot water removed the dye from his eyebrows 
and the color from his cheeks, which bad long ceased to appear puffy, and 
in about ten minutes from the time of his entering the room he devel- 
oped into a smart young man of moderate stature, rather slim than other- 
wise, dressed in a suit of plaid tweed, with a blue tie and a horseshoe- 
pin. The clothes were new. They had been worn only twice before, 
and from the remarks of his companions at the Albion, where he 
revived his strength with steak and onions at two o’clock that after- 
noon, it was obvious that his appearance had much changed for the 
better. 

• He was addressed as Bill Shout, and paid for his steak with a ten- 
pound note, which was one of several. The unusual ^incident was re- 
marked by a group of three friends seated at a table on the other side 
of the room, and as Shout’s circumstances were thoroughly well known 
to every one of his companions, inquiry as to the origin of this flow of 
wealth was natural. 

“ What’s the meaning of that, old man?” asked a slender youth with 
shaven eyebrows — a necessity of his professional engagement — a small 
round nose that was usually added to on the stage, and a small round 
mouth, which also possessed the advantage of adapting itself to any 
form that burned cork or the art of “ making-up,” could devise. 

“What’s the meaning of what?” asked Shout, with a surly look. 

“Don’t be nasty, old man,” said the young fellow. “We haven’t 
asked you to stand anything yet.” 

“No,” said Shout, “and when you’ve been in the profession a little 

3 


34 


THE VEILED HAND 


longer you’ll learn that impertinent curiosity does not lead to advance- 
ment.” 

“I’m sure, Mr. Shout,” said an elderly man, with a round face and 
great dignity of demeanor, who had hitherto been concealed from Shout 
by a partition, “ our young friend desired no intentional rudeness. 
I’m sure we must all be glad to congratulate you on any piece of good- | 
fortune. I trust you are fulfilling a profitable engagement.” 

The speaker was a provincial manager, who aspired to tragedy, and 
whom Shout felt it prudent to conciliate. He accordingly crossed tow- 
ards him, offered his hand, and said : 

“ I accept your congratulations, Mr. Fanner. I’ve just completed a 
most successful engagement, thank you.” 

“ In the provinces ?” 

“No, I’ve been taking a leading part in some private theatricals — a 
little domestic comedy contrived by the party that engaged me. It’s 
not as agreeable a^ the legitimate business, but it pays well — remarkably 
well.” 

Shout made this remark with great dignity, looking completely over 
the head of the young man devoid of eyebrows who had excited his ani- | 
mosity ; and when he had finished he wished Mr. Fanner “ good-morn- | 
ing,” and left the place. * fj 

I 

Out in the English Channel, a league or so from the Dover Pier, |1 
Muriel, in the highest of spirits, and with every bud of promise bursting { 
into fragrant bloom, so exhilarating had been the journey down, was j, 
being conducted by the gangway of the steamer to the fore-deck, where vi 
the luggage lay heaped in a great mound, uncovered and quite exposed, | 
for the sun shone and the sea was as glass. They were on the way to I 
find a small portmanteau, and, if possible, excavate it. i 

“There’s one of ours,” she exclaimed; “but no, there’s the name off 
‘ Lucas ’ on it — yet it^s very like.” 

“ Ab,” said Ddfoy, startled, “ I forgot to tell you. That’s the name 
we must travel by.” A look of pain broke over Muriel’s face. “ It’s 
necessary,” he said. “We must keep this matter secret for a time, or I 
am lost. You will not mind ?” 

He looked at her searchingly as he made the assertion interro^atorv 
“ Fom will not mind ?” 

She did not answer. ^ She could not. Again a tumult hurried through 
her heart and brain which no words could express, no thoughts of Imrs 
define— a harassing doubt, shapeless and unstable, but imperfously domi- 
nant. And yet of what avail at that moment? The very question was a 
condemnation of the act for which acquittal was sought — a denunciation 
of the entire method and progress of the week’s work. The measure of 
his selfishness and his estimate of her devotion were expressed in the un- 



SECOND PERIOD: 

THE LATTER PART OF THE SIXTIES 


Chapter VII 
THE DELEO YS 

The Delfoys “ came over with the Conqueror.” Their name implies 
the impressive fact, and the Doomsday Book records it. An historical 
account of the progress of the family through eight centuries to the 
sixties of the nineteenth would be as tedio.us as it is unnecessary for the 
purposes of this narrative, and those who are curious on the subject are 
referred to the British Museum, and particularly to the history of the 
Plantagenets. 

The record will exhibit a remarkable instance in this undoubtedly 
aristocratic family of the disposition in man to appropriate what he 
has no right to when he can do so with impunity ; or, in other words, to 
exact what weakness cannot withhold; and to hold, use, misuse, and dissi- 
pate without hindrance from any one what things soever may have been 
acquired in whatever way — a characteristic that is variously described as 
bull-dog tenacity and horse-leech persistency ; or in its weaker forms as 
the characteristic of the limpet, the barnacle, or the parasitical ivy. Thus 
the policy of the Delfoy family may be described as that of acquisitive- 
ness tempered by dissipation ^ — a policy that has been consecrated by 
such distinguished persons as the Roman emperors and many others 
even before King William, and sedulously encouraged since among the 
governing classes of all races and peoples. It has been copied in our 
time by leaders of the masses, who, in the interests of the toiling millions 
have acquired, or, as some describe it, “ annexed,” with great industry, 
and have fallen short in the matter of dissipation only through lack of 
time and opportunity ; but as the reforming tendencies of the age in- 
crease, no doubt the acquisitions of wealth will become more easy even 
to these, and from the same causes the opportunity for dissipation more 
abundant. For, setting aside those few restless beings with whom labor 
is a necessity of existence, the more leisure you have the more money 
you spend if you have it ; and if you haven’t the money, the leisure is a 
cause of distress. Wealth, in fact, creates leisure, and leisure dissipation. 


THE DELFOYS 


37 


Thus, happily for mankind, the plutocrat of to-day is ever on the way, 
from the very plethora of his possessions, to become the mendicant of 
! to-morrow. 

Following the practice common among the aristocracy throughout the 
whole of those eight centuries, the Delfoys had frequently found it ad- 
i visable, and sometimes necessary, to replenish their revenues, and some 
i would say invigorate their blood — blue as it was — by going into the 
i City. 

The practice of “ going into the City ” is common to the whole of the 
i inhabitants of these realms who have the chance. It is the place where 
people are most frequently disappointed; yet they go, day by day, with 
: renewed hope, from various causes, and with various intentions. But 
although the fact of “going into the City” assumes a variety of forms 
I arising out of the status and purpose of the individual, the principle is 
the same with all. Men go into the City with the expectation, or at 
least the desire, of taking something out of it. Some go with the modest 
idea of working, some occasional attendants make spasmodic raids, and 
treat the occult evolutions of the financial world as familiarly as they 
would a roulette table, and with the same sort of result. The Delfoys 
took neither of these courses, they went in as casual dealers, but whole- 
sale and with a speciality. They bartered the Conqueror for a good 
dowry, cash down, and they have done it often, as half the peerage has 
done it, and will go on doing it, if they don’t want to become paupers 
and effete. • It is the law. 

The motive of the Delfoys and their kind was, and always will be, the 
necessity for replenishment; the motive on the other side was, and 
always will be, the discovery of a new ambition following the achieve- 
ment of all the commoner social desires. The ingenuity of the spirit of 
envy is one of the most curious of the many extravagances of human 
ambition. When it has exhausted the resources of money, when its vic- 
tim is possessed of everything that money can command, it frets for 
those things which no amount of money can buy, and chief among these 
is lineage. The Delfoys occasionally gratified those extraordinary crav- 
ings by giving the next best thing to an ancient name ; alliance with those 
who can boast of one. They accordingly went into the City in olden 
times and offered the best brand in the country — the Norman Con- 
queror himself. 

Latterly, however, they had not made such an excursion, not because 
necessity in the matter of finance was not clamorous, but pride was 
strong, and the present head of the family, George Adolphus Leuchars 
Delfoy, had preferred mortgages and blood to a free hand and com- 
merce. His father had desired him to follow the precedent set by his 
ancestors and go into the City with the Conqueror, and knock him down 
to the highest bidder. He, however, married the Lady Grace Vendale in 


38 


THE VEILED HAND 


the year 1843, to the great joy of his mother and the confusion of his 
father, who never ceased to declare that Lady Grace was a temptation 
that should have been resisted. Strange to say, this same George Adol- 
phus Leuchars, in the year of grace 1868, having seen the error of his 
ways, wanted his son, the George Adolphus Leuchars next in succession, 
to go into the City. Happily there was no Lady Grace hovering in the 
neighborhood of the domestic arena to intrude the overpowering tempta- 
tion of blue blood in his son’s way as there had been in his own case, 
and the expedition was seriously contemplated. 

Lady Grace herself was not consulted in this matter. There were co- 
gent reasons for leaving her out of the calculation, and it is not worth 
while recounting the first forty of them, because the forty-first settled 
the question for all time. Lady Grace hated the City and everything con- 
nected with it, save only the occasional banquet and ball graced by royal- 
ty or the first Minister of the Crown. Consequently, it was tacitly 
understood that nothing was to be said to Lady Grace on the subject of 
George Adolphus Leuchars (her son’s) intention of going into the City, 
and that the outburst which would ensue on the accomplished fact must 
be added to the account of east winds, fogs, and other unpreventable 
evils. 

This family conspiracy would have been in all respects very deplorable 
and much to be condemned if Lady Grace had been otherwise agreeable, 
but she was not. She was colorless, mentally and physically. With the 
exception of her arched eyebrows, and her luxuriant light brown hair, 
she possessed no features that exacted a second thought, or provoked 
either disparagement or approval. It had been her misfortune to be 
educated, from her earliest infancy, in the belief that her station required 
her “ to sit still and look nice.” 

She carried out the first part of the programme to perfection by . 
steadily refraining from doing anything whatever that any other person 
could be found to do for her ; but in the second she was a failure. This, 
however, was, so far as she was compelled to admit the fact, in herr opin- 
ion, the fault of those whose duty it was to attend on her. She paid the 
highest wages, and secured the best possible assistance, and could do no 
more. If those whom she employ^ to make her look nice” did not 
succeed, obviously they were to blame, and no one else. The successive 
maids, French and otherwise, but mostly French, who had undertaken 
the task, would have defended themselves on the ground of the thin 
straight lips, the straight pinched nose and the angular chin, the curve- 
less back and the austere manner. Indolence and consequent indigestion 
did the rest. The whole series of misfortunes acted and reacted one 
upon the other, and a querulous concern for her dignity and social repu- 
tation reduced her life to one continuous but purposeless strife. “The 
poor madame, she is much unhappy,” said Fidele. 


THE DELFOYS 


39 


The head of the house was a match for Lady Grace in the matter of 
pride of race. He had, indeed, a very poor opinion of his wife’s family, 

! since it could be traced back only as far as the seventeenth century. In 
the matter of nobility it was an affair of the Bute Ministry, and there- 
fore quite a Brummagem business. His motive for the alliance was not 
dictated by the charms of Lady Grace, but by a secret ambition which 
he had encouraged from his youth. He had conceived the notion that 
relations with an ennobled family might, in conjunction with the political 
influence of the Delfoys, cause the fountain of honor to flow in his direc- 
I tion. It never did, and here he was, at the age of flve-and-flfty, a com- 
1 moner and impecunious. 

[| He was a remarkable looking man. A high forehead and slightly 
I aquiline nose, with pointed tremulous lips, and eyes that were piercing 
without indicating flrmness. He wore a small mustache and an imperial, 
which had become fashionable in his younger days, and had been re- 
tained by him from force of habit. He was not a man whom one would 
have chosen as a boon companion on the first introduction, and close 
acquaintance induced reserve rather than friendship. He and his wife 
exchanged courtesies, but no confidences. 

The family and the family name was his single- passion, and it swayed 
him to his destruction. He had never discriminated as to the distinction 
between what the family, in his opinion, ought to have and what it could 
afford. The family had what it wanted, and mortgages accumulated. 

The stringency became acute towards the close of the London season 
of sixty-eight, and the head of the family conferred in private with his 
successor on the subject of life interests, settlements, jointures, and timber. 

The “successor” was inclined in personal appearance to be dark, much 
to the satisfaction of his father, as there had not been a dark Delfoy for 
three generations, and the Delfoys, in his opinion, should all be dark. 
The only defect he had ever observed in his own immaculate person was 
that it was not dark enough for one of Norman descent. The model 
Delfoy, so far as accurate presumption from portraiture could give a 
standard, was a certain distinguished member of the court of his Maj- 
esty King James the Second, whose portrait pervaded the Castle in every 
variety of form and character, but each and all representing the Delfoy 
nose, around which the rest of the body and its appendages were grouped. 
Not to have the Delfoy nose was not to be a Delfoy. 

The “successor” was taller than his father, and rather gaunt, a hard 
drinker and a hard swearer. He had maintained the reputation of the 
family in all essential points, especially in the matter of satisfying his 
wants regardless of the consequences ; and he looked upon a discussion 
of the kind his station as heir of the Delfoys now imposed upon him 
as a bore. It jarred upon his nerves, and he classed his father’s constant 
references to the subject of economy with the importunities of his duns. 


40 


THE VEILED HAND 


They were down in the country, at Luckross Castle, in Hampshire, 
arranging the autumnal migration during the three weeks’ stay at the 
ancestraf home. The father had been down for some days. The sons 
had that morning arrived from town ; and the son of the house, fresh 
from Piccadilly, but with visions of heather before him, was in confer- 
ence with his father. Parliament was about to be dissolved, and in 
addition to the question of rents, interest, foreclosure of mortgages, and 
the necessity for new loans the family seat in the House of Commons 
had to be considered in circumstances of an unusually distressing char- h 
acter ; it was no longer a certainty. j 

The situation was peculiarly embarrassing. My Lady was thinking of \ 

going to Biarritz, or the Tyrol, or “ some other d d place,” as George , 

Adolphus, the successor, termed it. “As if she couldn’t stay at the Castle ' 
like a sensible woman,” said George Adolphus in possession. 

“ Everything should give way to duty,” remarked the head of the j 
family, impressively, and he rose up from his chair to say it in the 
presence of George Adolphus, the successor. “By ‘duty’ I mean duty j 
to the family, and at the present moment the chief duty — the exclusive, ' 
.absorbing, paramount duty to the family is the coming election ; money 
must be found for it, no matter what else goes to the wall, because there 
are associated with this election important interests at stake, interests 
especially concerning the family.” 

He repeated the last observation in a low tone, as if it were a matter 
only thought of by himself, and must be kept very quiet and confidential. 

“ Well, sir,” said his successor, “ Pm off for the twelfth to-raorrow, 
and shall be very glad to meet your views.” 

“Oh yes, George, yes,” he mused; and then added, almost apologet- 
ically, “ the moor’s very expensive.” 

“ No doubt, but we’ve always had a moor.” 

“ Yes, we’ve always had a moor.” 

“It’s the balls that have hipped you, sir; and they’re no good — only 
swagger.” 

“ Your mother thinks differently, George. She has them for your 
sister. What can I do ? Can’t you persuade your mother to be reason- 
able?” 

“ No, by ; Geoffrey can, or he could a year ago.” 

“What’s that Geoffrey can do?” inquired the younger son, entering 
the room with a cigar in his mouth. It was about eleven o’clock in the 
moiming, in what was known as the business room ; and Geoffrey, being 
anxious to replenish his exchequer before the autumnal flight, had come 
down to the Castle for a week to make himself agreeable. 

The head of the family looked grave, frigid, almost scowling; and 
Geoffrey, observing his demeanor, took a seat and asked what was the 
matter. 


THE DELF0Y8 


41 


‘‘The matter,” said the father, “is serious; it is the perennial diffi- 
culty of money, aggravated by special circumstances of which you, I 
regret to say, provide us with the most embarrassing.” 

“Oh,” said Geoffrey, “ that’s . annoying, because I want some money 
myself. Must have it, in fact.” 

lie was provokingly cool, and apparently not in the least concerned 
either about the family embarrassments or his own, except so far as his 
words conveyed. 

“ I don’t know whether you are aware of it, young sir,” continued the 
father, “ but your recent proceedings have been highly embarrassing to 
me in the House. You are being spoken of.” 

“ There’s no harm in that, I hope. For my part, I am glad of it.” 

“Your name is associated with the notorious Bowdler, sir,” exclaimed 
the father with horror. 

“And why not?” 

“A trafficker in treason, and you ask ‘ why not?’ Think of the family 
name, its history and associations !” 

“ Oh,” said Geoffrey, rising and flinging the end of his cigar in the 
fire, “that’s your affair. You and George may look after that. You 
monopolize the family -name, and all that belongs to it.” 

He appropriated the only easy-chair in the room, lit another cigar, re- 
turned to a position of repose, and regarded his father inquiringly as he 
leaned his elbow on the back of it. George stood at the side of the 
fireplace, with his hands behind him, grim and sardonic of countenance. 
He was interested and somewhat amused, and it was his place obviously 
to look on in this game. His father stood behind his writing-table, on 
the other side of the fireplace, and Geoffrey sat at the apex of the triangle. 
He laughed as he said, 

“This is quite a new light to you of our relative interests, sir, but it 
is the true one.” 

His father looked at .him and then looked down. His lips moved 
nervously ; his hands clasped and unclasped. His embarrassment made 
him speechless for a time. At length he said, reproachfully, and from 
his heart, 

“Geoffrey, you astound me. I have heard you spoken of as I said, 
but I was not prepared for this. I heard you were associating with 
revolutionists, but I didn’t think you were one. I didn’t think you 
would speak derisively of the family, and in fact defile your own nest.” 

He spoke with genuine emotion, but the son was in no way impressed. 
Indeed, he laughed a cold, contemptuous laugh as he said, 

“ It’s not my nest, sir. You two are in the nest. I’m tipped over 
the side, to fly or fall as the wind may chance.” The remark was shock- 
ing enough, but it only made his hearers speechless. He continued : 
“The fact is, sir, you seem to be living in the clouds, and don’t know 


42 


THE VEILED HAND 


what’s going on. You sit, day by day, in the House of Commons, and 
seem to know nothing of the political forces at woik around you. Pray 
have you ever heard of the Hyde Park railings? 

“ Bless my soul, Geoffrey, what have the Hyde Park railings to do 
with us here in Luckross Castle? 

“Everything, sir; they enunciate a principle. Certain workpeople 
feel they haven’t the political privileges they ought to have, so they 
knock down the Hyde Park railings. Then you give them household 
suffrage. I consider I haven’t my proper share of the Delfoy revenues, j 
so I Join the Hyde Park railings people. It’s very simple. I come 
down here for a little ready money, and you begin talking about the 
family name and economy. I don’t feel interested in the family name 
and economy, while the family name gives me nothing, and I have con- . 
sequently nothing to economize with.” , 

“ But aren’t you in the Buffs ?”• asked the head of the family. 

“ Certainly, for the honor of the family — not for my profit.” 

“ Haven’t I just arranged a lieutenant-colonelcy for you ?” 

“No doubt, also, for the honor of the family, and in a measure for my 
profit out of the army estimates. That’s quite right. None of us 
objects to bringing money into the family from the supplies voted for 
the army. But that is not the question.” 

The head of the family sighed. All this was quite new, and altogether 
reprehensible. Even George Adolphus the younger began to think 
matters had gone far enough, and he was getting anxious, but he said 
nothing. The embryo colonel in the Buffs proceeded, walking about 
the room and discoursing lightly with a freedom and facility that as- 
tonished his austere father almost as much as the sentiments he uttered. 
Said he, 

“This is a reforming age, and you may take it from me that the younger 
sons are going to strike. They won’t do it in the clumsy way of the 
trades-unionists. They won’t combine; but they will act each in his 
own way, and each for his own purpose. In this way they will achieve 
their object — at least those who deserve to do so will — and it’s a very 
simple one.” 

He paused a moment or two, practising the tricks of oratory with 
consummate impudence, and proving bis capacity in the rhetoric of re- 
form. 

“ Let me explain,” he continued. “ You draw thirty thousand a 
year.” 

“ No, no !” exclaimed the head of the family, “ nothing like it !” 

“Then you ought to, if you managed properly. Well, then, there’s 
you and the mother, and George and Grace and myself. That’s five, 
Five into thirty is six thousand a year. Give me six thousand a year, 
and my room in the Castle as usual, and I shall consider the family nam( 


THE DELFOYS 


43 


a part of my property worth thinking about. If not, then I have no in- 
terest in the family name, and join the Park Railings Squad.” 

He waved his hand in an airy way, took a seat at the end of the 
room, crossed his legs, and began tapping the table in a meditative man- 
ner. The others exchanged glances, and then concentrated their amazed 
gaze on the terrible anomaly before them. He sat with perfect noncha- 
lance — cold, impassive, calculating, without the slightest vestige of the 
violence shown in the park at Charnock three years before. He re- 
sumed, 

I “ I construe recent movements in a practical manner. It will pay me 
I to use the lower orders for my own purposes. I sha’n’t go about smash- 
ing park railings; but if I’m to have no interest in the family of a sub- 
stantial character, it would be absurd for me to sustain it. Look at the 
j case for yourselves,” he continued. “ What chance would the family have, 

! or any other family, if the younger sons were to come out? Imagine 
i the effect of a demonstration at the coming election, the Younger Sons 
! and the Proletariat. Just think it over. I’m going a ride with Grace : 
she understands the situation.” 

“ He’ll do as he says,” exclaimed the father, as he disappeared. 

“ Not he,” said the brother. “ He’s only bluffing. Give him time. 
He won’t throw away his allowance.” 

George Adolphus, the successor, wanted nothing disturbed. The least 
possible amount of depletion of the estate was what would best satisfy 
him, consistently with compliance with his own requirements. A moor 
and a good hunting stable were his chief gratifications, and he cared 
nothing for politics or social aspirations. His father’s position was 
more complicated. Besides the embarrassment of the competition be- 
tween the various members of his family and his own needs, he had the 
animal instinct of parentage to disturb his resolution. He liked Geoffrey 
for his obstinacy ; it was a well-established Delfoy characteristic. 

“ I’m afraid you’re wrong, George,” said he. “ I’m afraid he’ll do as 
he says. He’s a relentless, self-willed boy ; always has been. Do you 
remember how he cut the cat in strips, merely because he said he would 
do so, if I didn’t take him to town with me. I’m afraid of him, George.” 
The speaker mused a while, and then continued, “Just imagine him 
brino-ino: a crowd of those blatant ruflSans down here at the election. 
We must prevent that in any case.” 

“It’s all d d rubbish, I tell you,” said George Adolphus the 

successor, and left the head of the family alone, shaking its head, and 
finding nothing else in it than that Geoffrey was an obstinate, callous, 
and reckless sort of fellow, whom nothing would turn from his purpose, 
and to whom the suffering of others was a trifie. 


Chapter VIII 

LUCKROSS CASTLE AND A BULL-PUP. 

Luckross Castle was a building of unquestionable antiquity. The 
architecture of the portcullis and its surroundings indicated that it dated 
from the cross-bow period, and its site was chosen obviously from moA 
tives of defence. Imagine a high rock in the midst of a broad expanse 
of water, and reared upon this rock a castle of three stories in height, 
the rock and castle both being in the form of a Latin cross. ^ The port- 
cullis and drawbridge, which in olden times had barred the entrance, 
were at the foot of the cross, and from these visitors proceeded up the 
long arm to the main entrance. The common hall or vestibule opened 
into the grand hall, which occupied the whole of the centre of the build- 
ing at that part in which the arms of the cross intersected, and light was 
given to it by four magnificent oriel windows of stained glass of mediae- 
val origin, representing the four seasons. The ceiling was panelled in 
squares and octagons, and emblazoned with the arms of all the families, 
with whom the Delfoys had been allied. By grace and favor of Garter 
King at Arms, those who had no arms before this august alliance had. 
had them made for them, and there they were gloriously associated with 
the most dazzling epochs of our history — and with the Delfoys. 

Spreading out from this hall, the four arms of the cross formed cor- 
ridors leading right and left to smaller rooms, such as the ordinary din-, 
ing-roora, the morning-room, and library, each with its outlook across 
an undulating and richly wooded country, and each bearing within itself 
evidence of the cultivation of a sound artistic taste, that by rare good- 
fortune had been spared the reforming hand of the parvenu, and gave 
one a glimpse of a baronial residence untouched for at least two hundred 
years, with its ornaments, pictures, and arms, the heirlooms of its family 
and of itself. 

The building, its surroundings and contents, explained the cause of the 
absorbing pride of the head of the family, though it may be doubted' 
whether the passion were not an hereditary instinct rather than a reason- 
able growth based upon a cultivated appreciation. The desire to main- 
tain a family name in honorable repute lives too often long after the 
capacity even to estimate the grandeur of its associations has ceased to 
exist; and the world is sometimes shocked by the spectacle of a clown 
besmirching a glorious legend with the chronicles of the blackleg and 


LUCKROSS CASTLE AND A BULL-PUP 


45 

the prize-ring. The Delfoys had not fallen as low as this, hut the pride 
of race had already ceased to be a spur to effort, and was gradually fall- 
ing to the lower level of senseless egotism, as if the inheritance of a 
brilliant" retrospect should alone confer a title to respect and admiration. 
The gratification of an engrossing selfishness manured th.e vicious growth 
of arrogance, and there was nothing left in heart or mind of any of them 
but the cankerous germ of a moral death. 

But there was energy enough of a certain sort in the youth of the 
family. With Grace Delfoy it took the form of proficiency in dealing 
with dogs and horses. She was an expert in blood -hounds, and was 
almost fit for the circus in the matter of horses. She was small, like 
her mother, but a better figure, hard and wiry, a thin-lipped, hard-featured 
girl, with a cold gi’ay eye and a nerve of iron — a great walker, a great 
rider, and a perfect sailor. She adored Geoffrey, and envied him only 
because he was a man. Geoffrey accepted the admiration with equanim- 
ity, and gave Grace the pleasure of his companionship when he also was 
in the humor to be amused. She was just twenty at this time, and 
therefore, as far as age was concerned, marriageable. Her activity was a 
terrible trial to her mother, for what could my Lady Grace do for a 
daughter whose accomplishments centred in the stable and the kennel, 
and where among my Lady Grace’s connection could she find a husband 
for a girl with a hard skin and a harsh voice, and who preferred a hunt- 
ing-crop to a parasol any day ? My Lady Grace didn’t try. 

Nor did Geoffrey ; it was not a matter of concern to him ; but he 
would ride with his sister to fill up the time he spent in the dull old 
place. So they rode, and a mad gallop it was every now and then when 
they came to a common or some fallow fields with the additional diver- 
sion of a few gates in the way, for Grace had a route of her own apart 
from the Queen’s highway, and knew where she could go without up- 
setting the equanimity of the farmers. 

Coming back on the high-road at a walk, Grace opened upon a subject 
that had much exercised her. 

“Do you know Mr. Heritage who is coming here to-day?” she asked. 

“ A little ; he’s a friend of George’s — not my friend,” said Geoffrey. 

“Is he rich?” 

“ What do you call rich ?” 

“ Can he do things well she asked. “ Can he keep a dozen hunters, 
a yacht of a thousand tons, and* a proper town-house ?” 

Geoffrey laughed. 

“ That’s a rather tall standard, Grace,” he said. 

“ It’s my idea of the correct thing, anyway. Can he do that?” 

“I think not just now; but he is said to be his uncle’s heir — Lord 
Freshfield, the banker, who is enormously rich— and can do all you say a 
dozen times over.” 


46 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ Freshfield,” mused Grace. “ How is he a peer and a banker?” 

“ He’s a peer because he was a banker, and a successful one.” 

“ How odd !” exclaimed Grace. “ Isn’t it odd, Geoffrey ?” | 

“To you perhaps, but the old order of things has changed. The peer- - 
age is now the reward of successful tradespeople, contractors, financiers, •' 
salesmen, and, I suppose, commission agents. The peerage being a new 
creation, Heritage will not succeed to it. It dies with the present man ; 
but Heritage gets the money they say, and it is over a million.” 

“ Oh,” said Grace, “ and what sort of a man is he ?” . 

“ Handsome, but not your sort. He does not hunt, and has no en- 
thusiasm for any sport. He reads a great deal, and is a quiet sort of aJ 
chap. Some people say he’s a bit of a prig; but he never bores you, andl 
never interferes with other fellows’ sport. Has the mother been saying , 
anything to you about him ?” 

“ No, but I think there’s something in the wind. I don’t see why, as 
Heritage is going north with George, there is any necessity for his com-^ 
ing south to see him. They w'ould in the ordinary way have quite!' 
enough of each other at the Clench, I should say; and, from what you^ 
tell me of him, I fancy he is not exactly the man George would take to 
of his own accord.” 

They turned into the main road as she said this, and descried the 
Castle wagonette approaching, with Heritage on the box beside the 
driver. Geoffrey communicated the fact. An introduction followed, 
and the guest had a mounted escort to the Castle. 

The construction put by Grace on this visit was fairly accurate. A 
vague hope had dictated the invitation ; and the pleasure of visiting an 
historic mansion had dictated the acceptance, nothing more. No other 
guest was present at the Castle to check the feeblest inclination for more 
intimate relations should it chance to be awakened in the breast of 
Morris Heritage, and the object of parental solicitude was left to go her 
own sweet way in the unconscious achievement of the family ambition. 

Morris Heritage had a fine head— a countenance suggestive of repose, 
and yet indicating a mind capable of maintaining a stern purpose. He 
was in general appearance rather commonplace than otherwise, a sort of 
average man in fact, making no pretensions to excellence in anything, 
enjoying life in a quiet way, as few men having an abundant income 
have the strength to do ; he was neither stolidly indifferent to the greater 
things of life nor extravagantly interested in the petty. He was indeed 
at the age of thirty-five still finding his feet in matters of judgment and 
opinion, and nervously doubtful of the justness of the conclusions he was 
inclined to. 

He was always neatly dressed, on the principle laid down by Lord 
Chesterfield ; within the fashion, but avoidiiig its extremes. He had a 
large, dark brown eye, wore his hair rather short, and was clean shaven. 


LUCKROSS CASTLE AND A BULL-PUP 


47 


There is reason for supposing that he endured the discomforts of the 
razor because he was conscious of the possession of a pair of lips that 
were always pleasant to look upon, and that he would lose in appearance 
by covering them. Such consideration does sometimes weigh even with 
^ the male human, and it would perhaps be better if more people con- 
sidered these points and made the best of their appearanee. Morris 
Heritage was essentially a neat and careful man, and avoided extrava- 
gance of all sorts. 

Geoffrey avoided him and all the family before dinner. He desired 
the first volley of his attack to settle home and create its legitimate moral 
effect before reriewing hostilitievS. He proposed to himself only a light 
guerilla warfare, until he could see a good position a day or two hence 
for another and more effective fusillade. He accordingly proposed to 
himself the enjoyment of a luxurious idleness during the afternoon, anff 
he went off with a pipe in his mouth, a new cherry-tree stick in his hand, 
and a bull-pup at his heels, to think things over, and by-and-by he sat 
himself down on a felled tree to refill his pipe. 

While so engaged he bethought him of a letter from Muriel that he 
had in his pocket unopened. It had been reposted by the hall porter of 
his club, and he had put it aside for a leisure moment. He opened it 
and read a line or two, yawned, and put it back in his pocket. He 
: hated long letters, he said, and lighted his pipe. 

I “ My dearest Husband,” wrote Muriel, — “ The children are so very 
I good this evening that I shall be able to write to you quite a long letter 
! and tell you all the news. First and foremost, our dear Philip actually 
walked two steps this afternoon, and though he went plump down im- 
mediately afterwards, the feat of walking has been accomplished. He is 
now, as I write, building a tower with the bricks you gave him, but he 
doesn’t do it very well, and I have to leave off every now and then to 
help him. Do you know, I think he will be a musician, for there is a 
I barrel organ outside and he is trying to sing to it quite loud. Of course 
he doesn’t sing in tune, nor more is the organ quite in tune either, but 
it evidently excites his dear little mind, and I do hope that my conject- 
ure is correct. Theodora, whose first birthday is to-morrow — and I shall 
give her a kiss for you immediately I awake in the morning — is sleeping 
quite soundly in her crib, and doesn’t mind the noise in the least. Isn’t 
it nice to have them so very good ? 

“ I have not been very well to-day, and was inclined to be nervous to- 
night, but the idea of writing to you has done me good. As I write I feel 
as if you were nearer to me, and the thought is comforting. You have 
been away three weeks now, and I am wondering whether you are at 
Aldershot to-night or at your London quarters. I am counting the days 
as usual, and think of the lovely time in store for us at the close of the 


48 


THE VEILED HAND 


month. You must not think of me as being lonely ” (he never did), 
“and to-morrow I shall have the little French girl Julie here to help me 
with the children, and so shall have more rest. Mrs. Littercan, the land- 
lady, has been very kind, and I think she is glad we have taken the whole 
of her rooms. Her husband has something to do with a railway, and he 
goes away for days together, ‘down the line’ she calls it, and when that’s' 
the case I sometimes ask her to sit with me, and she brings her mend- , 
ing. r wish she was a little cleaner, but I suppose it’s London smoke ” 
(the house was in Torrington Square), “ and the blacks will come down. 
Baby had three smuts on her pretty little nose this afternoon. Jemmy 
Littercan wheeled the perambulator, and we went round Russell Square 
four times — quite a long walk — but the doctor says I must keep up my 
walking as much as possible without getting too tired. i 

“ I must now put Philip to bed, so good-bye, my dearest husband, j 
from your loving, loving wife, Muriel.” 


The bull-pup became demonstrative during the pipe filling and made 
for the cherry-tree stick. Feeling that the time had not yet arrived to 
permit the decoration of the stick with the marks of teeth, Geoffrey 
warned him off, and the dog, being perfectly indifferent what he bit ‘so 
long as he was played with, took quite agreeably to Geoffrey’s fingers. 
This provoked an exclamation. “You little devil!” said Geoffrey, and 
looked about for something less sacred than a cherry-tree stick for the 
dog to worry. There was nothing near at hand, no switch to be cut 
nearer than twenty yards, and no decayed boughs near the moss-grown 
trunk on which he sat. Muriel’s letter was the very thing for such a 
case. Folded again in its envelope it was just stout enough for a bull- 
pup’s teeth, and being of a superior ivory paper, required a skilful grip 
on the part of the bull-pup to catch it fast ; but the bull-pup was equal 
to the task, and at the end of the first bout retained a piece of the en- 
velope in his mouth, impaled on one of his teeth, to his great astonish' 
ment and inconvenience. 

While he was engaged in getting rid of it Geoffrey reflected that the 
letter might possibly contain something he should know, and it would 
be better if he looked it over before the bull-pup was again entertained 
with It. He opened it up, and glanced down the eight pa<res with a 
rapidity which showed great consideration on his part for the anxiety of 
the bull-pup to begin again. There was nothing in the letter, he thought, 
beyond the usual small talk, so he folded it up with a grin of anticipa- 
tion, an exact counterpart of the pup’s knowing look of expectation, with 
ills comical little head cocked on one side. 

In five minutes the letter was in fragments, scattered to the winds, 
with the passion and the vows of three years before mere flecks upon the 
broad expanse of memory, every moment growing more dim and blurred; 


LUCKROSS CASTLE AND A BULL-PUP 


49 


but such as they were a provocation to resentraent, a regret without re- 
pentance, a cause of vexation without remorse, a tiresome, irritating re- 
flection of the past that intruded with ghostly persistency, and though 
intangible as the air, it harried and rebuked, but did not soften. 

Conscience is a poor instrument when the soil is bad. 







i 


Chapter IX 
THE DELFOYS DINE 

The poor little woman known as Mrs. Geoffrey Lucas, who went round 
Russell Square four times from a sense of duty, was introducing the new 
French nurse, Julie, to her little pets at the time when the Delfoy family 
assembled in the west drawing-room for dinner. It was a grand room. I 
Poverty had restrained the reforming hand of plutocratic vandalism! 
within its bounds, and had preserved it a perfectly consistent piece of I 
old English art, without a scrap of Berlin wool or Oriental excrescence ■ 
to mar the unity contrived by its designers. 

My Lady Grace exercised her solitary enthusiasm in the reception of 
her favorite Geoffrey. She had not seen him before that day, and he 
must sit next her, take her into dinner, amuse her, and be monopolized 
by her. Accident and inclination accorded with design in this matter. 
George could sit next his father, and Grace could be opposite to him, so 
that Heritage, sitting between her and her mother, would be completely 
imprisoned — cut off from his refuge, and compelled to the gracious con- 1 
straint of dinner-table small talk, unless perchance the gods should favor \ 
the design of my Lady Grace and he should become particular. j 

The keenest eye could not say that he was. His perfect manner dis- 1 
armed criticism and made conjecture futile. The table was small enough | 
to permit of a general conversation, and Geoffrey took care to make it i 
political. * \ 

“ This is going to be a dreadfully political autumn,” said Grace. “ We 
shall hear of nothing else till Christmas but elections.” ! 

“Naturally,” remarked Geoffrey, “it’s the subject. What place do ^ 
you stand for, Heritage?” i 

“ I ?” said Heritage, “ I stand for no place.” ■ 

“ Really ! That’s singular. Everybody’s going to stand this time for • 
everywhere. It’s the electoral millennium — for candidates.” : 

“ And you ?” asked Heritage. 

“ I, sir, have a constituency at my disposal till the 15th of next month; 
and there’s another wretched man trembling in the hope that I will say 
‘ No.’ The poor wretch is eager. I’m not.” 

“ Why, Geoffrey,” said ray Lady Grace, “ that is interesting. Why 
have you kept that to yourself ?” 


THE DELFOYS DINE 


51 


I “ My dear mother,” said Geoffrey, bending low, “ I’m learning the 
i great art of reticence, for reticence is the first principle of politics.” 

“How do you make that out?” inquired his sister, in her blunt way. 

“ No man can be a minister of the Crown, Grace, if he cannot answer 
I a question without giving any information.” 

I ^ “ But are you really thinking of standing ?” asked the head of the fam- 
, ily, who had been listening with growing concern to this lively passage. 

“ Yes, sir. I’m perhaps neglecting the observance of the first principle 
I of politics by declaring as much; but we are here in the family circle.” 

I “ You support the Government, of course,” said the head of the fam- 
^ ily, with trepidation. 

“Well,” replied Geoffrey, with provoking nonchalance, “that’s the 
: question. That doubtful point is the cause of my having till the 15th 
of September to give my answer.” 

The Lady Grace suffered a revulsion of feeling, but she didn’t speak. 
Political opinion was to her a religion, and all this was not only new to 
her, blit supremely shocking. That Geoffrey could have any doubt 
about the line he would take was worse than a declaration of atheism. 
An agnostic might be received in society of the innermost circle, but a 
political heretic was to my Lady Grace worse than a lost soul. She 
trembled and listened. 

“ ‘ You don’t feel disposed to take a leap in the dark,’ ” said Heritage, 
after a pause, and using a cant phrase of the day, invented by the Prime- 
minister. Heritage felt it incumbent on him as a visitor to assist the 
domestic circle out of a diflSculty, and as happens in the case of those 
well-meaning but unfortunate persons, he put his foot in it up to the 
ankle. . There was another pause. Presently Geoffrey pulled himself 
together, raised his eyebrows, and said, impressively, 

“ The leap has been taken. Heritage ; the question now is where to 
land. I have made up my mind to land in a given place, and I shall do 
it as sure as you are sitting there, presuming I conclude before the 15th 
to say ‘Yes’ to the proposal made to me.” 

The dead silence that followed this declaration indicated to Heritage 
that it was not a matter of badinage but a serious difference of opinion 
he was discussing. The terrible anxiety of his host, the sullen demeanor 
of his friend George, and the fretful activity of the ladies with their 
bread and their knives and forks, showed him his error, and nerved him 
to the rescue. 

“ You politicians,” he said, “take matters too seriously.” 

“ That cannot be,” exclaimed the head of the family. “ It is an ob- 
viously and essentially serious matter.” 

“ No doubt, but you are too serious in regard to the details of the 
immediate present. Your area of vision is too circumscribed. Suppose 
the country has made an error in this matter, What then ?” 


52 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ Ah ! ‘ what then,’ indeed, what then ?” exclaimed the head of the 
family, while Geoffrey toyed with his glass and smiled approvingly. 

“ Simply this,” rejoined Heritage, “ the individual may suffer, but 
the community will recover, and even revoke. This change has been too 
sudden and too large, but a decade will see the country equal to cope 
with it.” 

“ Never,” broke in his host, with emphasis altogether disproportionate 
to the proposition submitted, and Geoffrey continued to play with his 
glass and blandly smile. j 

“ It is difficult,” said Heritage, looking straight before him, and ) 
measuring his words, oblivious of the frowns of his friend George and i 
the anxiety of the Lady Grace, “ it is very difficult to construe the ^ 
movement of any social force, and estimate its strength. It is obvious, ' 
for we see it every day, that a man may arise, who, without education, • 
without even common knowledge, and certainly without the judicial fac- 
ulty, will, by mere force of rhetoric, the very principles of which he is - 
incapable of divining, achieve an ascendancy over the multitude, and with 
perfect conscientiousness lead a movement every stage of which is fraught 
with wrong to the individual, and present evil to the community. But, 
if I have read contemporary history aright, I find that it takes only a 
few years for the community to readjust matters. The evil is reme- 
died.” 

“ And what about the individual ?” asked the head of the family, who 
evolved a violent animosity to his guest. 

“He, unfortunately, must suffer,” remarked Heritage, with a bow. .« 

“Unless he dodges,” put in Geoffrey, laughing. “Heritage,” he add- 
ed, “ you’re a born politician, because you’re a philosopher. You must 
stand for somewhere. The country cannot do without you.” 

“ No,” said Heritage, “a man cannot be everything, and a man’s judg- ' 
ment may be determined by what he refrains from attempting, just as a 
man’s excellences may sometimes be presumed from what he is not.” 

“ But we of the adv^anced party,” remarked Geoffrey, with parliamen- 
tary gravity, “ do not permit of a negative condition. We are for action 
and decision.” 

“ I regret I cannot oblige you,” said Heritage. “ I’m afraid I’m not 
what you call ‘advanced.’ I’m essentially a laggard, because I am never - 
satisfied about anything, and least of all about my own judgment and •- 
my own work. I have, however, come to one conclusion. A man can- ^ 
not be and do everything and go everywhere, and I have resolved, among '' 
other things, that I will not become a professional politician. I shall, as , 
a consequence, have the satisfaction of a pleasure that is denied the par- ^ 
liamentary candidate. I shall avoid the ungracious jealousy and envy 
that is bred of defeat, and, standing aloof, shall experience a generous 
delight at the success of another.” ^ 


THE DELFOYS DINE 


53 


“You mean,” said Geoffrey, with the suggestion of a sneer, “that you 
are not good at taking a beating.” 

“ No,” said Heritage, “ that is not ray meaning. I should take what- 
ever was in store for me, fighting. But, inasmuch as life is too short to 
achieve perfection, even in any one accomplishment, a man may be ex- 
cused if he restrict the number of his enterprises ; and inasmuch as pol- 
itics, rightly appreciated and honorably pursued, is the most arduous of 
all, I except it in the hope that by narrowing my ambitions I may ap- 
proach success in some.” 

My Lady Grace had not resumed her equanimity, and thought it pru- 
dent to withdraw. As Heritage opened the door for her she conjured 
up a smile from some remote corner of her manufactory of those social 
appendages, and said, 

“ You must not let them keep you very long from the drawing-room, 
Mr. Heritage.” 

My Lady Grace thought the atmosphere betokened a storm, and did 
not approve the turn things had taken. 

“ I’m surprised you don’t intend to stand. Heritage,” said Geoffrey, 
with provoking insistence, as the guest returned to the table. 

“ You need not be. A political career has great attractions for me in 
theory, but the practices of politicians appal and repel me.” 

“ I am afraid you are not patriotic,” said Geoffrey. 

“ Political ambition, in my observation, is seldom associated with pa- 
triotism,” said Heritage, who was tempted to go further, but remembered 
he was in the house of a Member and refrained. To his astonishment, 
however, the head of the family exclaimed, with unusual vehemence, 

“ You’re quite right, Mr. Heritage ; patriotism is the last thing thought 
of nowadays. Self-seeking in every variety of forms, including even the 
tricks of common trading and company mongering, are the motives 
which lead people to seek a seat in Parliament in these times. The 
country is going to the deuce, sir, as fast as it can. You have heard the 
sentiments expressed at this table — at my table,” he reiterated, with a 
vigorous blow that made the glasses ring ; and with a look of terrible 
indignation at Geoffrey, he added, “Ask your friend, here, Mr. Heritage, 
what motives will determine his choice of a political party ?” 

“I’ll answer that question with pleasure,” said Geoffrey, composedly. 
“ My motives will impel me to make no choice of a party, but I shall 
revive in my own person the constitutional right of perfect inde- 
pendence.” 

George Delfoy, who by this time had drunk quite as much wine as he 
could carry, looked up at the word “ independence,” and surveyed his 
brother with a comical look of admiration. Then he burst into a bois- 
terous fit of laughter, and finding no one joined in his hilarity, stopped 
snddonlv. and looking absurdly grave, asked whether they didn’t think 


54 


THE VEILED HAND 


politics a piece of tomfoolery, and why men could not enjoy themselves 1 
in their own “set” instead of worrying about the country. Having set! 
forth his views, with many expletives, which he found it quite impossi- 1 
ble to avoid, he wound up with the inquiry, J 

“ Why worry about the d d country — the d d country doesn’t | 

care a d for you ?” ^ 

“ The ‘ d d country,’ as you call it,” said Geoffrey, “ cares a good 

deal for you, George, and is going to overhaul your proceedings, and go- ■ 
ing to put you in order. It says you spend too much on yourself, and ' 
you don’t do anything for it, and that you’ve got to work. It says you ’ 
must give up your disposition to prefer grouse to sheep and pheasants to ^ 
cows. You’ll find it a d d interfering country.” 

“ Then,” said George, straightening himself up, “ if it comes to that, 

I shall be a politician. Look here, now,” he added,” as he put down his 
glass with a knowing shake of the head, “ what I want to know is, how 
can a man know anything about his place if he doesn’t walk over it, 
and how can he walk over it if he doesn’t shoot over it ?” 

“ How can he ?” asked Geoffrey. 

George straightened himself up again, looked at his brother through 
his eye-glass, and repeated, “ How ?” with the air of a man seeking truth 
through a haze. 

“ By his legs,” said Geoffrey, solemnly. 

“ Ob,” said George, who, in default of a rejoinder, took another glass 
of claret and went in search of his favorite liqueur to assist him in fur- 
ther reflections on the newest phases of political development. 

A moment or two of embarrassment supervened, but Geoffrey was 
not going to be moved from his purpose, and pulling some pieces of 
paper from his pocket, he said, 

“ I’ve got here some passages for my election address that will interest ' 
you.” 

Heritage smiled, but the head of the family gasped. He was more 
sensible of the terrors likely to result from Geoffrey’s action than any- 
thing, however distressing, associated with his heir. He was silent, how- 
ever, for he longed to hear the worst. 

Geoffrey informed them that it was not his whole address, but some 
passages he had collated with his friend Mr. Marmaduke Bray, a student- ; 
at-law, a journalist, and a “ devilish clever fellow.” Bray had promised ' 
to see him through ; he understood the platform business, and knew 
every election trick that had ever been played. 

This is the opening,” said Geoffrey, and he continued with a gran- 
diloquent mouthing, also the result of collaboration and rhetorical study 
with his friend Bray : 

With the Parliament about to be elected the country enters upon 
a new epoch in the constitutional history of the people, as opposed to 


THE DELFOYS DINE 


55 


I tbe plutocrat and the monopolist. The Chariot of Opulence must now 
justify its existence, or go down beneath the wagon of the peasant, and 
be trampled under foot by the cart-horse of commerce. 

“ ‘ The governing classes of the past must now respond to the demands 
of reason and of justice. Founded upon a basis of spurious patriotism, 
and reared upon an unsubstantial pedestal of egotism and vanity, they 
have erected a wondrous fabric of pretence, and must now reap the har- 
vest of the idler and the spendthrift.’ 

“ That’s to be my exordium,” said Geoffrey, with calm disregard of 
I the flaming countenance of 'his father, who, in the presence of Heritage, 

I dared not permit himself to speak; and Geoffrey, in the same cool 
manner, announced a paragraph on party leaders, which he said he re- 
garded as “ a gem,” and did his friend Bray great credit : 

“ ‘Now that power is to be grasped by the people there must be an 
end to party government ; and that enemy to social progress and reform 
— ^the party leader — must be relegated to the charnel house of the crim- 
inal and the malefactor. These birds of evil who batten on the carrion 
of an effete institution must be dispersed to the four winds. Their 
actions form one long and deplorable record of treason against the 
State, and betrayal even of their colleagues. In the name of an honor- 
able and self-denying patriotism they commit acts of unexampled mean- 
ness, betray those whom they designate as friends, and who are, indeed, 
their constant supporters. Impetuous, and blind to every consideration 
but Self, they hurry to the goal of their licentious ambition, and to 
achieve success they do not stop short of actions that would do credit 
to the card-sharper and the welsher of the race-course.’ 

“ That, sir,” he remarked, looking straight at his father, “ is the kind 
of thing that’s going to win the elections in November.” 

He put up the papers, and a rapid glance at his father showed him he 
was nervous and irritated, but quite incapable of speech. Had Geoffrey 
been a stranger attacking him on the border-line of his estates, or 
haranguing him from the other side of the House, his mind would have 
girdedyoand his emotions would have been at rest; but the atrocity of 
one of his own house being the first to open up the terrors of the politi- 
cal future, and announce in cold blood his secession from the sacred 
ranks of family prestige, was too terrible for speech ; and he constantly 
reminded himself that Geoffrey as a boy had cut the cat into strips, and 
hung the strips on a clothes-line, merely because he had declared he 
would do it as the price of denial. He resolved there and then he would 
not cross Geoffrey. 

Th^ silence of the father was encouraging. Geoffrey turned with a 
solemn air to the unfortunate guest. 

“Now, Heritage,” he said, “don’t you think those two or three Sien- 
tences mark the temper of the hour?” 


50 


THE VEILED HAND 


“I’m afraid,” said Heritage, “there’s some ground for your expecta-1 
tion ; but I’m disinclined to grapple with these matters, which are merely , 
the excrescences and diseases of constitutional government. I ve no ^ 
taste for clap-trap, and electoral machinery disgusts me. It’s a sort of h 
intoxication brought on by the waving of gaudy banners and the parad-y- 
ing of forensic platitudes. Reason has little or nothing to do with any ■ - 
part of. it, and the phantasy is almost universal. Those who cannot be 
candidates satisfy their vanity by being committeemen, and those who 5 
are incapable of achieving this distinction bask in the reflected glory of : 
the gods they have created, and whom they worship with yells of pas- ^ 
sionate but senseless delight until the poll is declared; when they go 
home to get sober and repent.” ; 

“ We’d better go to the drawing-room,” said Geoffrey ; and away he 
went, perfectly content with his day’s work and happy in his diplomacy. ' 

“ Stop,” said his father to Heritage, who rose to follo^v. “ Stop, I beg , 
of you. Just a moment or two for reflection — no more,” and he put his 
right hand upon the arm of his guest and waited, with a bowed head, to 
collect his scattered thoughts and reinvigorate his bruised pride. 

“ Mr. Heritage,” he said, in subdued tones, after an embarrassing si- 
lence, “ you have seen what has happened at this table. It would be ' 
affectation in me to hide from you its terrible import and folly, or to 
suppress the feelings it provokes in me. If I were not sensible of the 
responsibilities imposed upon me as the head of this house I would 
accept death with satisfaction rather than endure what I see coming. 
Why is it?” he exclaimed, with true feeling, and an honest seeking for a 
light that had never yet and never would penetrate the dense gloom 
that enshrouded him, and distorted every ray of social truth on the road 
to his twisted brain. “ Why should I be so cursed ? Did you see 
George? He’s often so, and he’s your friend. What can become of him? 
And Geoffrey, he is worse, far worse. George is a private distress, but 
Geoffrey is a public ruin. He appears to be consorting with our political 
opponents, and with the worst of them. I would care less if he inclined 
to the legitimate opposition. That might be of advantage,” he con- 
tinued, with a sudden gleam of cunning, “ That might suggest to our 
party possible defection on my part, and excite our friends to an anxious 
regard for our just claims, so as to knit us to them — yes, our just 
claims,” he mused, nervously, and then broke out again, “ but Bowdler, 
that dreadful, shameful, terrible man, who appears to fear neither God 
nor devil, and who leads a perfect horde of filthy malcontents against 
our most sacred privileges. Oh, terrible, terrible !” 

He stopped and pressed his hands upon his forehead ; and then added, 
in tones almost plaintive in their intensity, 

“ All this has happened unexpectedly. It’s a shame you should have 
been shown it— it’s a shame you should have been distressed by it. I 


THE DELFOYS DINE 


57 


would not speak upon it and distress you further, but I need your help. 
I plead with you to assist me to prevent the impending evil.” 

He had taken Heritage by the hand as he made the appeal, and«'Seemed 
thoroughly broken and unnerved. He might have been supposed to be 
ten years older from the wreck the day had made of him — the pride was 
gone, the head was bowed, the spirit shattered and th: whole man hope- 
lessly weak. The confession he had uttered to Heritage — for it was a 
confession — of the failure of his life and hope had increased his nervous- 
ness instead of relieving him, and before Heritage could reply he said, 
plaintively, 

“ What have I done ? What have I been saying ?” and looked dreamily 
at his friend, still holding his hand. 

“ You have been saying,” said Heritage, “ what had better have been 
unsaid, but you may regard your words as unuttered; and if to-morrow 
you think it well to speak to me again, do so ; but let this suffice for 
to-night.” 

“ Thank you, thank you, Heritage. It does me good to feel you are 
my friend, and I shall anticipate to-morrow. Make my apologies in the 
drawing-room. Good-night to you.” 

The morrow came, but no more confessions — no more weakness. The 
[ rising sun dispersed the vapors of the night ; the mind revived in all its 
pride of race, and with added cunning. Everything that had been said 
and done the night before was blotted out so far as Heritage observed. 

' From anything that occurred next day to justify reliance on his memory 
i he might fairly have concluded he had been dreaming. Yet he discovered 
that my Lady Grace now treated him coldly. There had been family 
communings. My Lady Grace Jiad forbidden the introduction of a 
stranger, however intimate a friend, within the circle of family confer- 
ence ; and she treated him coldly because he had responded to her hus- 
I band’s appeal with generous courtesy. 

i Geoffrey on the morrow went to a neighboring town ; and George suf- 
fered from an unquenchable, thirst — as was natural from his reflections 
i of the night before. 


Chapter X j 

THE AFFAIR OF THE CLEUCH ^ ' 

George Adolphus Leuchars Delfoy, Junior, successor to the es- ; 
tates of Hanswick and Luckross, and of the Manor of Santrail, had 
views about the whole duty of man that would have astonished the v 
commonplace philosopher and have excited the Radical refoimer to 

frenzy. . if. 

To those of his habit the calendar was redundant and incomplete ; tor 

although quarter days were well placed in the matter of the receiving of 
rents, the actual business of life was wholly neglected in them. The 
brief references to grouse and pheasants were all very well, but they had 
their origin in the exactions of the State, and in this light were objec- 
tionable. The graver subjects— the record of hunting appointments, 
the Waterloo Cup, the Derby, the St. Ledger, and the Cesarewitch— were 
all ignored ; and as for the regattas, any one would suppose from the 
calendars that no such thing as a yacht existed. 

The year, as every one knows, divides itself, in its natural as well as its 
conventional aspects, into four sections, some of which, it is true, overlap 
each other; but the beginning of each was and is as distinct as the 
changes of the moon, and certainly more regular than the reaping of the 
harvest. The issues of the weights and acceptances of the spring hand- 
icaps can be fixed to a day. There can be no excuse for the almanac 
makers neglecting them. It is true the Derby is a movable festival, but 
it is determined by Easter week, and all the other great events are regu- 
lated by it, including the St. Ledger and Ascot Cup. In these circum- 
stances the almanac makers are obviously to blame. Then come the 
regattas, gracefully intertwining their dates with the festivals of the 
paddock. Yet not one of them is even mentioned, and not a word 
appears in the calendar until the glorious twelfth of any of the great 
absorbing subjects of the year, and the tailor is no doubt never thought 
of. There was a time in the early part of the century when the almanac 
makers fixed the days for blood-letting and the avoidance of choleric 
drinks ; why should they not now prescribe the times for seasonable gar- 
ments, and the days for trying them on ? 

The knowledge of the regular progress of the great events of the year 
being implanted in the breasts of the Delfoys from the hour of their 
birth, they were in a manner independent of the almanacs, but they re- 


THE AFFAIR OF THE CLEUCH 


59 


garded the omission with feelings of annoyance, as reflecting on the dig- 
nity and social importance of their class. It was part, however, of the 
nobility of mind inherent in the character of George Adolphus Leuchars 
Delfoy, Junior, not to complain of the calendar in this respect. He 
took a brandy-and-soda and forgot its defects and omissions. 

The Cleuch, the shooting of the Delfoys, had been rented by them for 
many generations, and was regarded by them as an essential appendage 
to their state, and quite as necessary as a costermonger would regard his 
barrow or a gardener his rake. It was also a matter of urgency and im- 
portance that the moor should be shot on the twelfth by a party invited 
by the son of the house, and on the twelfth of the year ’68 George 
Adolphus the younger was on the ground with his friends, and a rare 
day they had. 

The host killed forty brace — the keepers took good care of that. 
Tilley, an inveterate sportsman,, was pretty near him, with thirty-flve ; and 
Saltoun claimed a score. Hazard, who would have made a good navvy, 
added about ten brace ; and Heritage, who made no pretensions, about 
the same. This was accounted in the records of the day a respectable 
performance, and George Adolphus was proud of it — very proud — so 
proud of it, indeed, that he contemplated the figures with awe, remarked 
that it was a “ record,” and went to bed sober. 

A similar result followed each day’s sport for a week, and by that 
time the whole of- the beats had been shot over once. The total was 
magnificent, and deserved a symposium. It had it. 

Rhapsody in drink assumes a variety of forms. Even your saturnine 
man sometimes becomes loquacious and emotional when overinvigorated, 
and few maintain even an appearance of their normal state in such cir- 
cumstances. Delfoy’s friends were unusually animated. Saltoun, who 
would have become a capable lawyer had he been poor, was argumenta- 
tive ; and Tilley, from a tendency to destructiveness, was contradictory 
and threatening. Hazard was gloomy, and Heritage accounted for a 
certain dulness by declaring that his liver had been put out of order by 
contemplating Hazard’s face. Delfoy was disposed to agree with every- 
body, but announced a preference for a fight. Tilley was quite ready to 
oblige him, and the two immediately closed, broke Delfoy’s chair in the 
act, and rolled upon the floor, bumping one another’s heads on the 
boards with becoming earnestness. , 

The whiskey being declared in danger, peace was restored, and the 
varied conversation was resumed. Saltoun objected to Heritage’s crit- 
icism concerning Hazard’s face ; and as regards his liver, desired to have 
his symptoms. This gave rise to a discussion on the necessary remedies, 
and Tilley, who had recovered his equanimity, and revived his strength 
by more whiskey, recommended a bath. Saltouji gave the same advice, 
and Delfoy was certain a bath was the proper thing. Hazard was too 


THE VEILED HAND 


60 

far gone to form any opinions on that subject, and Heritage avoided 
controversy on so delicate and personal a matter. 

The prime question having been settled, temperature was next dis- 
cussed, and a cold bath was resolved on. Delfoy thereupon left the room 
to turn the water on, as it was not considered a matter that necessitated’ 
the aid' of the domestics. During his absence a close observer would 
have noticed an increasing growth of vindictiveness on the part of Tilley, 
in the course of an argument with Saltoun as to whether it was neces-^ 
sary to remove Heritage’s clothes. Tilley maintained it was not, and 
argued, with much show of reason, that the prescription was his, and not 
Saltoun’s, and therefore he was the more capable of interpreting it. The 
matter was referred to Delfoy, who unhesitatingly declared that the 
clothes were a necessary part of the prescription, but that Heritage must 
drink another glass of whiskey first. flatly refused to do, and 

the endeavors to force him resulted in its being applied outwardly in 
his case, but all the rest prepared for the contest by what they called a 
good stiff tot up.” 

It is an undecided question, upon which no authoritative deliverance 
has ever been made, as to what course should be pursued by the victim 
of a practical joke. Those who act as aggressors always, when aggress-, 
ors, declare the victim’s only course is to take it quietly ; and yet it is 
universally agreed that a victim who takes it quietly affords no satisfac- 
tion to the aggressors. It therefore comes to pass that a good victim is 
a poor joke ; and although an undemonstrative victim may be morally 
esteemed by the aggessors, he is, on the higher ground of practical jok- 
ing, regarded with contempt. 

Heritage knew all this, had discussed the matter often, and although 
convinced that quietness was the wiser course, never in any case acted 
up to his convictions, and sooner or iater retaliated. 

The onslaught in this case was conducted with vigor and determina- 
tion ; and Heritage, feeling that in any case it was wise to reserve his 
strength, offered only so much resistance as kept his friends occupied. 
The smoking-room opened to the hall, a stone-flagged place about twenty 
feet square, from which the staircase rose to a landing that passed right 
and left throughout the whole length of the building. The bathroom 
was entered from the landing looking down into the hall, and the door 
being open, the water was heard still running. The sound was distaste- 
ful to Heritage, and irritated him. 

The four men, working with desperate energy, carried him up-stairs, 
and abused each other with good sounding oaths for errors of judgment 
and execution as they did so. Tilley was counted the worst offender, 
because, being on the side of the balusters, he permitted Heritage too 
frequently to grasp the railings, and in two cases break them. The 
larger area of the landing enabled them to keep him clear of the railings, 


THE AFFAIR OF THE CLEUCH 


61 


and he was rapidly carried to the door of the bathroorn. The time had 
* now arrived, he thought, for serious resistance, especially as his friends 
had by this time rather spent their strength. The doorway was nar- 
row, and Tilley in his excitement had permitted Heritage to thrust out 
his left hand and grasp the jamb, while his head was actually in the 
room and his right shoulder on the outside of the opposite jamb. 

While Tilley was fumbling with the left hand Saltoun was pulling 
the right arm towards Delfoy, who was viciously wrenching Heritage’s 
right leg. Hazard had charge of the other leg, and was dreamily wait- 
ing events, which came with an appalling suddenness. Heritage drew up 
his right leg, bringing Delfoy with it, and then thrust it out with all the 
I force of desperation, aided by the strong purchase his shoulder gave on 
I the door -jamb and the vigorous pulling of Saltoun. The effect was 
i electrical. Delfoy was flung with his full weight on the railing, crashed 
I through the balustrade, and fell head-foremost to the stone flags below. 

I The joke was played out ! 

I The castastrophe sobered the trio in an instant. The sharp cracking 
of the railings as the wood parted, the yell of the falling man, and the 
II' silence that followed the awful sickening thud upon the stone floor, 

I brought them all on their knees in the supplication of miserable fright. 
Heritage, too, was horror-stricken as he lay on the floor, even before he 
had discovered the fearful character of the catastrophe. He soon scram- 
bled to his knees, and saw the sickening scene below. His was the keen- 
er repentance, for, strange to say, he alone of all the company appre- 
hended precisely in what respect he had contributed to the result. He 
knew that he had lost his temper at the last moment, and knew- that this 
final error, no matter how provoked, had been the actual immediate 
I cause of the death of his friend and host. The others were less discrim- 
: inating. All the generous instincts of their natures rose up within them ; 

and without reflection as to cause or blame, they hurried helter-skelter 
, to the rescue — but they met only death. 

One — it was Tilley — fell on his knees beside his dead friend, and 
i pulled at his hands; another, Saltoun, gazed on the wreck as he ap- 
I proached with wide-opened eyes and fallen jaw ; the third, Hazard, held 
' his temples in his hands, in abject helplessness, unable to descend the 
staircase. 

“ Where’s Heritage?” asked Tilley, hoarsely. “ Come, for God’s sake, 
Heritage. Delfoy’s dead. What shall we do ?” 

It was two in the morning, and little could be done. They carried 
their dead friend to the dining-room, and laid him on the table. They 
covered the ghastly sight with a sheet, and then, in hoarse whispers, dis- 
cussed the policy of rousing the house. Heritage had left thfem by this 
time. He was out in the dark night, walking backward and forward 
in the cold mist, beside. the river that ran at the foot of the park. He 


62 


THE VEILED HAND 


needed stillness and the darkness to steady his nerves, away from the 
petty chatter of his impotent companions. His spirit was rebellious 
still; he must needs justify himself, though none had blamed him, and 
none would ever think of doing so, for no one knew of the condemna- 
tion he had passed upon himself. 

Heritage, acting for the rest, roused the head-keeper, horrified him by 
a statement of what had happened, and directed him to start early in 
the morning for the doctor and the fiscal, so as to have them on the 
spot by the time Geoffrey, who was then on the road, had reached the 
Clench. Heritage then returned to the house, locked the dead man’s 
room, and took the key to his own. Three minutes afterwards he was 
in bed, but not to sleep. 

Half an hour later there was a dull knock at his door, and Tilley pres- 
ently entered, with bis pipe in his hand and perplexity in his face. 

“ Look here. Heritage, old man. I mean to say I am sorry to disturb 
you, but we’ve been talking it over down-stairs, and we should know ^ 
what we’re going to say. Geoffrey is due here about ten, and I mean 
to say we should tell him how it happened.” 

“ Well ?” queried Heritage, who noticed that the “ talking over ” 
down-stairs had not improved the vigor of Tilley’s intellect. 

“ Well, I mean to say that we must not tell different stories.” 

“ Certainly,” said Heritage ; “ that’s very easy.” 

“Yes, it’s easy in a way ; but I mean to say, don’t you know, that of 
course I know it was my fault, and that I’m a d — ^ — d fool. You know 
I proposed the bath.” 

“ Well, and what then ?” 

“ Why, you see, I mean to say Saltoun thinks we had better say he 
was leaning against the balustrade, and that being rotten, it gave way.” 

“ Give my compliments to Saltoun,” said Heritage, in a rage, and tell 
him I’m not a liar.” 

Tilley’s courage waned. He stepped back towards the door, but re- 
covering, he said, 

“ Oh yes, of course, but you know the balustrade is rotten — d d 

rotten. Here’s a bit of it all worm-eaten.” 

Heritage looked at the piece of wood. It was a splinter about three 
inches long, and worm-eaten as Tilley had said. Presently he looked up, 
somewhat appeased. The worm-eaten wood was a great solace to 
him ; his violence had been a mere contributory — one of a series of not 
altogether blameless acts, but all petty criminalities accumulating with 
terrible effect. Heritage refiected a minute ; and then turning to Tilley, 
he said, 

Tilley, we must tell the plain truth. It was a low, blackguard busi- 
ness— a miserable drunken scrimmage— and, though I thank God I was 
on the defensive, it was my leg that Sent him over, and Saltoun almost 


THE AFFAIR OF THE CLEUCH 


63 


went too through his own drunken folly. Saltoun nearly pulled iny 
j arm out of its socket, and swung the whole weight of my body on Del- 
foy. Nothing could have saved him.” 

Tilley carried the result of his embassy to his two lugubrious compan- 
ions ; and although it was not what had been desired, it seemed the re- 
sult of sounder judgment to their dazed minds. They continued, how- 
ever, to smoke and discuss the situation, and when the dawn broke went 
to their rooms to dress for the day. They reappeared an hour or two 
afterwards, mere washed-out wrecks of the rubicund sportsmen of the 
day before, with variegated complexions in blue and white, with occa- 
I sional patches of brown near the neighborhood of the eyes, and with a 
listless hangdog appearance which did great credit to their consciences, 

I and marked also their staying power in the matter of brandy and tobacco. 

In due time the doctor and the fiscal arrived. The doctor was 
' young, and his responsibilities light ; but, being young, he viewed them 
' with gravity, and as matters for anxious thought. The fiscal was old, 

' and no matter how heavy his responsibilities, he declined to regard them 
as anything but commonplace, and to be got rid of. He was a big man, 
with a round red face, and tempered his law and the obligations of his 
office with an overpowering element of common-sense. 

“ Now, Master Macphee,” said he to the doctor, “ you’ll just view the 
! corpse, and give me yer opeenion of the cause of death, and what time 
I the morn ye should say life became extinct. When ye’ve done that, 

! docter, ye’ll have naething more to think aboot.” 

This done, and the scene of the catastrophe examined, the grewsome 
spectacle of the fractured skull was recorded in matter-of-fact language, 
together with the further incident of the dislocation of the spinal cord. 
The fiscal then proceeded to hold a court, and in twenty minutes had 
taken his “ precognition ” of all concerned. When he had concluded he 
discussed the matter in private with the doctor, and announced the fol- 
lowing conclusion : 

“ Weel, docter, it’s just as plain as the nose on yer face. They were 
all fou’ thegether, and there was just a rotten rail betwixt Measter Del- 
foy and the deevil, and it was no fit for the job. Thats all aboot it, 
and there’s no muckle sense amang the whole lot o’ them. So, docter, 
we’d better tak’ a bit something for breakfast and get away to our busi- 
ness.” 

In due time Geoffrey Delfoy arrived. He had been told what had 
occurred by the driver of the dog -cart that met him at the railway 
station, and he had ample time during the hour’s drive to the Cleuch to 
resolve the kaleidoscopic flashes of the future, which rushed upon his 
mind with dazzling rapidity, and resulted in an outward demeanor that 
the vulgar would naturally regard as fraternal emotion. The coachman 
was sympathetic, and remarking the dazed appearance of Geoffrey, asked 


64 


THE VEILED HAND 


whether he should drive. Geoffrey passed his hand across his brow, and 
drawing a heavy breath, said “ Yes,” wrapped himself in all the wrappers 
he had,' for he felt curiously cold, and mounted the cart in silence. He] 
mused the whole journey without speaking, except to ask a few ques-'l 
tions concerning the circumstances of his brother’s death, which he pro- 
jected from his multitudinous thoughts, spasmodically, and waited with 
impatient eagerness for the reply. 

It is not given' to many to construe the causes of emotional effect. 
The human mind, and especially such a mind as Geoffrey’s, controlled 
by a vicious egotism of surpassing recklessness, was a sealed book ; and 
a most misleading page was here opened up by chance, to be read by an 
illiterate coachman, whose judgment at this juncture was distorted by 
fear of losing his place. Trinder, sitting behind, could have read it bet- 
ter ; but whatever his view, he kept it to himself, and the coachman’s 
mind was directed to the discovery of Geoffrey’s inclination concerning 
himself. He therefore noticed only that Geoffrey seemed startled from 
a comparatively light and lively manner by his report of the catastrophe, 
and seemed instantly reduced to a state of terror. He was in the act of 
complaining of the dog-cart having been sent for him instead of the wag- 
onette, when the news silenced him, caused him to tremble, to look about 
aimlessly as if for help, and finally to walk away a few yards by himself 
without speaking. He was affected, indeed, precisely as he was on the 
road from the Horse Guards to Myatt’s Fields with Muriel three years be- • 
fore. It was not grief, it was not joy, it was not physical debility, but 
an uncontrollable nervousness resulting from the sudden intrusion upon 
his path of an event of great importance, so great as to be for the mo- 
ment overwhelming in its infiuence. 

At the door of the Clench Lodge, however, Geoffrey recovered com- 
posure ; he demeaned himself with becoming gravity, but a studied re- 
serve was associated with everything he did. Although few if any un- 
derstood why it was that a sense of guilt was awakened in their minds 
by his mere look and manner of regarding them, yet so it was. Every 
one in the place was made to feel that he was on the defensive ; and he 
imposed and aggravated this sense of weakness by every means he could 
devise, especially by a studious avoidance of conversation. He made one 
exception, so soon as he had possessed himself of the mind of the fiscal, 
and this w'as in the case of Heritage, with whom he took a turn or two 
in front of the house after seeing to the departure of the fiscal and the 
doctor. 

“ Heritage,” he said, in rather stilted tones, “ I have to apologize to 
you in the name of my family for having associated you with this unfort- 
unate incident. The breach of hospitality has been paid for in a terrible 
manner ; and I hope you will not deny me your company until we can 
leave here together with—” He waved his hand in the direction of the 


THE AFFAIR OF THE CLEUCH ^ 


65 


dining-room. “ The procurator-fiscal has given me a certificate for burial, 
and there is to be no further inquiry. You will much oblige me if you 
can get these men to leave without offending them. They must be anx- 
ious to go away, but say from me that I trust they will stay as long as 
they are disposed. And apologize for my not taking part in their pur- 
suits — you understand ?” 

Heritage thanked him for the relief his remark gave him, and assured 
him an apology was the last thing he expected. It struck him as sur- 
prising, when he fully refiected. on the situation, that Geoffrey should 
have realized with such consummate skill the sentiment that had been 
uppermost in his mind throughout the earlier stages of the fatal royster- 
ing. How completely had he put himself in Heritage’s place, and how 
accurately had he imagined the irritation Heritage had felt before his 
temper had asserted itself. Heritage had reason to discover in later 
days that Geoffrey had a smack of genius about him in the rapidity and 
accuracy of his perceptions, and that had his moral qualities been equal 
to his mental, few of his compeers would have equalled him in dignity 
of thought and honorable achievement. 

It was arranged that Geoffrey should seclude himself in his brother’s 
room for a couple of hours, while Heritage managed matters, and Geof- 
frey would wait his summons to hear the result. 

The feeling of admiration and gratitude to Geoffrey on the part of 
Heritage would have undergone a surprising revulsion, as indeed would 
those of the fiscal and the doctor and the coachman, and every other per- 
son under the sun concerned about the doings of this precious scion of an 
ancient lineage, had they seen his face the moment he had closed and 
locked the door of his brother’s room. 

He strode to a position where he could survey the whole room and all 
its contents, arranged in order by his brother’s man, and left just as 
they had been placed the night before. He heaved a long and heavy 
breath, swung his arms round to open his chest, and bringing his hands 
onto the lapels of his coat, assumed an attitude, not of pride, not of 
glee, not even of pleasurable anticipation, but of a malignant and all- 
powerful ambition. His eyes literally sparkled with a fierce and exult- 
ant sense of newly acquired power. The aspect was shocking, beyond 
the power of language to convey. His glance seemed to shoot out 
over the most distant horizon of time, and mark down its prey with re- 
lentless fiame. It cannot be said that this fierce awakening of all the 
latent evil of the man allowed one single spark of generous impulse or 
noble aspiration to temper the horrors that his soul conceived, aggravated 
as they were with the knowledge that the growth from which they sprang 
was rooted in the mangled corpse of a brother not twelve 'hours cold in 
death. 

A haughty shake of the head and a bitter smile, moulded in hell itself, 
5 


66 


THE VEILED HAND 


ended this ghastly survey, and the necessity for action was apparent. =1 
He unlocked the door and rang the bell. 

Trinder appeared. He gave one rapid glance at his master, and a ray 
of intelligence passed over his face, to be instantly covered by his impen- 
etrable mask. 

“ Get my brother’s keys,” he said, “ especially the key of that cup- 
board.” 

It was a cupboard fixed on brackets in the angle of the wall. The keys 
were brought promptly, and handed with the special key already selected. 
Trinder vouchsafed a remark : 

“They’ve been washed, sir,” h6 said. “There was blood on them.” 

Geoffrey dropped them on the floor, and turned as white as a sheet. 
The stain of blood was strongly marked on the very key he was about 
to use, and his nerves were unstrung in an instant. 

Trinder picked them up, trembliug too. 

“ Which is the key ?” asked Geoffrey. 

It was shown him, and he answered, 

“ Give it to me, and get out.” 

Trinder went ; and, suppressing his nervousness, Geoffrey opened the 
cupboard. It contained half a bottle of brandy and some glasses. He 
brought them out, and carried them to the table. Having locked the 
door again, he drank a wineglass of brandy ; then he sat and brooded. 
The boldness was gone, and something of a miserable shrinking was 
upon him. He muttered oaths incoherently, and then drank another 
wineglass of brandy, this time with water. The spirit revived his com- 
posure, and he looked about him for writing materials. He sat down, 
with a gloomy countenance, and wrote : 

“ My dear Wife — ” 

Then revived the grim and cynical smile as he looked at the writing. 
Shaking his head and grinning the while, he tore the sheet in pieces as he 
said, 

“ No, no. Enough of that. ‘ Dear Muriel.’ That’s better.” 

“ Dear Muriel,” he wrote, — “ My brother is dead, and my regi- 
ment is ordered abroad. I don’t know when I shall see you, but the^ 
agents have their orders. Yours truly, G.” 

He folded it up deliberately, and addressed it. Is it too trite to say 
that the bull-pup would have behaved with more of human kindness? 

There was another letter, now made necessary by the new order of 
things, and that was equally curt. It ran, 

“ My Dear Bray, — Let your friends in Parliament Street know that 
through the sudden death of my brother, in very distressing circum- 


THE AFFAIR OF THE CLEUCH 


67 


stances, I am compelled to decline standing for Parliament at the gen- 
eral elections as proposed. 

“I will write to you within the next ten days, making an appoint- 
ment. Yours very truly, Geoffrey Delfoy.” 

The “ Younger Sons and the Proletariat” was no longer, in his opin- 
ion, an apposite cry. There was no longer a younger son in the whole 
world worth a moment’s -consideration in Geoffrey Delfoy’s thinking, 
successor to the estates of Hanswick and Luckross and of the Manor of 
Santrail. 


Chapter XI 

FOR THE HONOR OF THE FAMILY 

The elections were over, the Government of the dissolution had re- 
signed, the ministerial crisis was being enacted before the assembling 
of Parliament, and while the triumphant majority were celebrating their 
victory, and their leaders were squabbling over the spoils of success, the 
defeated were counting the cost of political fervor, and devising personal 
economies under the guise of rest, retirement, and patriotic umbrage. 

Mr. Delfoy had been returned by a majority of two, and could not 
doubt that this success had been achieved for him by his son Geoffrey, 
whose oratory had been a cause of enthusiasm in the county, and whose 
capacity for trimming was the envy of the wire-pullers. Since the death 
of his brother he had shown that the turning of one’s coat is not the ex- 
clusive privilege of eminent party leaders, and Geoffrey would have re- 
sponded to any reflections upon his political variation by saying that the 
question whether a coat should be turned or not depended entirely on 
the fit. He had, however, a great advantage over most politicians of 
this class. No one had seen his old coat but those whose anxiety was 
even greater than his own to keep its character to themselves. 

Lady Grace away at Nice — away from the noise and discomfort of the 
elections, thought the majority of two an insult and a degradation. Her 
theory of representation was that the member should be evolved by nat- 
ural selection from the electors, should be drawn by importunity from 
dignified seclusion, and pleaded with to do the multitude the great service 
of ruling them. Associated with this theory was the belief that the only 
possible evolution in their case was the selection of a Delfoy, a belief that 
the majority of two had for the first time brought within the area of 
doubt. 

The head of the house and the son of the house had joined my Lady 
Grace at Nice, where Mr. Delfoy anticipated at least three weeks of fresh 
air and supposed retirement before commencing his duties as a legislator. 
He was perfectly content to let the new Ministry form itself, and the new 
House of Commons elect its Speaker and swear itself in, and metaphori- 
cally sweep and garnish the House and make it ready for so distinguished 
a member as himself. These mechanical arrangements he left to the new 
members, and especially to those of the late opposition exultant in their 
success. It became him rather to ascend, in imagination, to the upper 


FOR THE HONOR OF THE FAMILY 


69 


chamber of the temple of superiorit}", and gaze in sorrowful regret at the 
squalid spectacle of the new majority, 
j This was his public aspect, but gnawing at his heart was the demon of 
[ impecuniosity, and the more mysterious influence of an uncertain fear. 

[ What did Geoffrey intend? What would influence him ? How could 
he be approached ? 

Since the election Mr. Delfoy’s fear of Geoffrey had become more con- 
tinuous and more pronounced. He was scarcely conscious of the fact,- 
would have resented the suggestion if any one had dared to assert it, and 
even if he had recognized the existence of the feeling, would have been 
unable to assign a single tangible reason for its existence. He was con- 
scious, however, of suffering from a nervous dread that something unde- 
sirable was likely to happen. His imagination ran riot among the possible 
terrors the daring spirit of his son might devise for his own gratification, 
and his father’s and everybody else’s confusion. 

They took their dejeuner at the Restaurant de la Reserve, these two — 
father and son, obtrusively polite to each other, ridiculously attentive 
and conciliatory, and each watching the other in all his movements, 
speech, attitude, and expression in the hope of spying a chink in the 
armor; common wrestlers watching for a throw. What can be said for 
that social custom which makes a man’s son his competitor from the day 
of his birth ; which makes him perhaps for oi;e-and-twenty years a pas- 
sive and irremovable obstacle to the fulfilment of a thousand and one in- 
clinations, more or less unwise and improper, perhaps, but possibly pru- 
dent and useful ; which creates a bar to enterprise as to dissipation, and 
resists the universal law of mutation by fixing the limits of succession 
before there is any one to succeed ? And yet it may be asked what nat- 
ures could those be who, being of the same blood, the one to nurture 
and the other to revere, could spend their hours in digging pitfalls for 
each other, and watching for opportunity of advantage; and, still fur- 
ther may it be asked, what system could be devised that could restrain 
such natures from doing any wrong that seemed to them a means of 
gratifying even a whim ? 

They lacked nothing, these two, that any heart should wish. Some 
people, who have made it the business of their life to ruin their diges- 
tions, cannot take bouillabaisse^ but these two enjoyed the famous dish 
of Southern France with much circumstance ; and the father took occa- 
sion especially to hide his thoughts and intentions under a flood of 
exclamations at the delights of the cuisine of the locality. But by- 
and-by, when the dejeuner had ended, they had nothing but the coffee 
and cigars and the ethereal blue of the Mediterranean to discourse upon ; 
and when they found the ethereal blue rather beyond their practical 
souls, the ice must needs be broken — and the father broke it. 

“ About the future, Geoffrey ? What are your views ?” 


70 


THE VEILED HAND 


He asked it in a somewhat frivolous manner, examining the ash of 
his cigar with an appearance of carelessness, and yet frowning and 
pursing his lips. He had been watching for an opportunity to put 
that question for three months, as he had watched before and put it to 
George, and as he had put it to George with indifferent result. He put 
it again almost, as his mind comprehended the position, to the same 
person, in only slightly varied circumstances. The remainder-man was 
to him the successor, nothing else ; the creation of the family solicitor, 
and of social custom — a being who had come to pass; and whether 
named George or Geoffrey, he had to be conciliated and cajoled. 

So fully did he recognize the existence of a Delfoy in succession as a 
matter of course, and as a necessary and proper appendage to the 
family, that he never once encouraged the feeling of regret that he 
could not do as he liked with his property, but uniformly persuaded 
himself that inasmuch as the family required a Delfoy in succession, so 
the successor should have rights that he as a Delfoy must respect. The 
recognition of this traditional feeling led in logical sequence not only 
to regarding his son as a competitor in rights and titles, but of inciting 
him by every endeavor that cunning could devise to restrict these un- 
doubted rights, and even if possible to destroy them. Thus it came to 
pass that while he would not have been without a son and successor for 
untold gold, and would have died rather than not have settlements, he 
spent the best part of his days in devising modes of robbing the one 
and paring dow’n the other. Therefore he asked, with studied care- 
lessness, 

“ About the future, Geoffrey ? What are your views ?” 

Geoffrey’s views regarding the future were far more definite than his 
father’s ; but he thought it prudent to say he had none, and yawned as 
he said so. This reduced his father to a state of doubting silence so 
long of duration that Geoffrey, desirous of having the subject pursued, 
inquired, with the air of ingenuous youth, 

“ Views about what ?” 

“Well, said his father, much relieved, and assuming an air of un- 
concerned deliberation, “ marriage, for instance,” as if he had just that 
moment thought of it, having excavated the idea with much labor from 
out the whole range of human experience as applied to his son’s future. 
“ Marriage,” he repeated, and nodded his head at the Mediterranean. 

“Oh yes,” said Geoffrey, “ I’ve thought of it, but what’s the use of 
thinking, with nobody to marry and nothing to marry on ?” 

There was a slight variation to Mr. Delfoy’s usually dignified stolidity, 
a sudden glance sideways at his son, a glint of pleasure in his dull eyes 
as Geoffrey uttered these words. 

True, he answered, resuming his ineffective manner and again nod- 
ding at the Mediterranean, this time with evident signs of approval. 


FOR THE HONOR OF THE FAMILY 


71 


“ But,” he added, “ has it never occurred to you that the person to 
marry might provide the means to marry on, and do what we sadly 
need — er — really, you hnow — er — rehabilitate us?” 

“ Where is she ?” asked Geoffrey, with a directness and decision that 
i might have led his father to suppose he was ready that moment to lead 
[ any lady to the British Consul he could produce answering to the con- 
I ditions, and marry her at the earliest possible moment. 

Mr. Delfoy was gratified, and said, jocularly, 

“That’s your part, Geoffrey. You must discover the lady, but you’ll 
I find me ready to do anything you require to facilitate matters.” 

Ilj “Ah,” said Geoffrey, gravely ; and the next moment he appropriated 
SI the solemn manner of his father, with only youth to distinguish them, 
so ponderous did he become when submitting a weighty and urgent 
proposition. “ Ah,” said he, “ if that is your view, I think you had 
: better begin at once, because it is impossible to move in this affair with- 
.,out some spare cash;” and he nodded, as his father had done, to give 
[[evidence of his decision. 

“ We had better sell something,” said the Delfoy in possession. 

“Very well, sell,” said the Delfoy in succession. 

Then they looked at each other, feeling their way like two hucksters 
at a fair. Presently the father asked, timidly, 

“ What shall I sell ?” 


And the son answered, with increased decision, 

“Anything you like. How do I know what you should sell? You 
have it ; I haven’t.” 

“ The designing parent’s jaw dropped. 

“ Are you aware,” he asked, “ that this means breaking the settle- 


ment?” 

“ Then break it,” said the son, wagging his head and emphasizing his 
words with his cigar in the air ; “ break it. We want ready money — 
both of us. If we cannot get it without breaking and selling, we must 
break and sell.” 

And he w’ent on smoking. The readiness with which he assented to 
this dreadful expedient, only half expressed, awakened the father’s sus- 
picions, and although it was the very thing he wanted, the ease of its 
acquisition alarmed him. He became still more doubtful of the se- 
curity of his stepping-stones a few moments after, when Geoffrey pro- 
duced a piece of paper, asked him questions, put down his answers, and 
showed him in ten minutes that he knew no^iing of the state of his 
affairs, and inferentially proved he was not fit to manage his business. 
From this it was a simple step for Geoffrey to suggest that he should 
manage it for him, and before the interview closed he was commissioned 
to instruct the family solicitor to cut, mortgage, sell, realize, and do any- 
thing he liked, with the object of providing themselves with £25,000 


72 


THE VEILED HAND 


each at their banker’s. As Geoffrey put it, necessity was their law : 
they had to put their affairs in order, and it was of no use attempting 
to begin a work of that magnitude without ready money. Ready 
money, he told his father, made a man feel able to meet the world, and 
he expatiated at some length on the charms of a balance in cash and no 
debt, as compared with a balance of debt and no cash, and generally on 
the overwhelming superiority of ready money over prospective revenues. 
When he had finished rehearsing these views, his father began to feel 
quite easy about the future of his estates, and his peace of mind was 
discounted only by a feeling that Geoffrey would have the best of him 
in the bargain if he didn’t take care. To insure against this he re- 
solved to write a private note to his solicitor, requesting him to remem- 
ber that in taking Geoffrey’s instructions he was in all matters of doubt 
to act specially in his interest as against his son. 

“ Now, Geoffrey,” he said, continuing the consultation, “ as we should 
understand each other perfectly, would you mind — er — telling me — how 
you propose to act — how, in fact, you intend to proceed in this matter 
of the marriage ?” 

“I must first clear the decks,” said he, with his eye on a distant 
steamer. 

“ Any diflSculties ?” asked the father, with a return of his nervousness 
and suspicion. “ I presume, he added, with great hesitation — “ I may 
take it that you are not already married?” 

“ No, not quite. Very nearly, but not quite,” answered Geoffrey, 
refiectively, looking at his boots, as if still in doubt how nearly he was 
married. 

The answer increased his father’s nervousness. 

“ I suppose you are aware,” he said, “ that rumors have been current 
about you — rumors that you were married some years ago, and have an 
establishment in town ?” 

“ Ah,” said Geoffrey, refiectively, “ that would no doubt arise from an 
erroneous impression on the part of the lady. She probably imagines 
— indeed, I feel sure she imagines — that she is married to me.” 

“ Good Lord, Geoffrey, how you talk !” exclaimed the father. “ ‘ She 
imagines,’ you say? How can she imagine such a thing if you are not 
married? You astound me? I must be assured, or the thing we have 
arranged cannot be completed. The honor of the family requires that 
I should be assured.” 

“ No doubt,” answered ^eoffrey, as if still refiecting, and then turning, 
with a cynical expression on his face, he asked, ‘ You don’t suppose I 
should not know whether I am married or not, do you ?” 

“ Then be good enough to explain. Were you married at the 
Registrar’s ?” 

“ No, thank God ; that would have finished me.” 


FOR THE HONOR OF THE FAMILY 


73 


“ In a Qburcb ?” * 

“ Yes.” 

“ By a clergyman ?” 

“ An imitation clergyman.” 

“ Gracious heavens, that’s a felony !” 

“ On the part of the imitation clergyman.” 

“ And on yours.” 

“ Well, nearly, but not quite. You see, you’ve got to prove knowl- 
edge on my part, and the lady is evidence I had none. Besides, I had 
the archbishop’s license.” 

“ Then how in the name of Heaven did this sham clergyman get the 
church at his disposal ?” 

“ Bought it.” 

The head of the family gasped, and Geoffrey added, 

“ He didn’t actually buy it. He agreed to buy it, and paid a deposit 
of £50, the purchase to be completed in a fortnight, and he’s never 
since been heard of anywhere under the sun. His name was Brill.” 

The head of the Delfoys, erect, and excited by feelings of amazement 
and alarm, glared at his son and heir, speechless. Geoffrey was care- 
fully lighting another cigar, and stopping in the middle, said, 

“ Brill forfeited his £50, of course,” and went on with a puff, puff. 
His father remaining speechless, he added, “ You need not alarm your- 
self. The parish was the wrong parish, the parson wasn’t a parson, and 
there was no registration. The only genuine things about the whole 
business were the archbishop’s license and the lady’s belief,” 

“ And discovery ?” asked the father. 

“ Well, discover Brill,” said Geoffrey, who was getting impatient at his 
parent’s stupidity ; “ and when you have discovered Brill, see whether 
you can get him to make admissions that will give him penal servitude. 
I don’t think you will.” . 

Light began to break in upon the head of the family, and his feelings 
subsided. But he asked, with an apparent indignation, 

“ Don’t you think you’ve acted like a scoundrel ?” 

“ For the honor of the family,” replied Geoffrey, with a bow, which 
directed his father’s thoughts into pother channel. 

“ And this woman,” said he, “ what will she do ?” 

“ This ‘ woman,’ as you call her, is far too gentle and charming to do 
anything vulgar or absurd.” 

“ She is a lady, then ?” exclaimed the father, exhibiting signs of 
increased alarm. 

“Not exactly what the mother would call ‘a lady,”’ said Geoffrey re- 
flectively ; “ but sire would pass in a crowd.” 

“ And if she is so,” exclaimed the father, “ why have you treated her 
in this dastardly manner, sir?” 


V4 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ For the honor of the family,” repealed Geoffrey, with a lower bow 
and a still more cyniSal smile. 

There was another pause, during which Geoffrey smoked placidly. 
Then, turning to his father, he said, 

“ We need not refer to this matter again ; but if you prefer it, if you 
really feel that you would like the lady for a daughter, I am quite ready 
to throw over Brill and legitimatize the marriage. I am doubtful 
whether it can be done in any case ; but I don’t mind trying, if you 
really think I am a scoundrel, to put her and her children on a correct 
footing — for the honor of the family !” 

There was no answer. 

“ If we throw over Brill I think it can be done,” he said, reflectively, 
toying with his cigar. “Yes; I can make an application to the courts 
to get the registration made, on the ground that we have been deceived 
by a supposititious clergyman. That’s good law. We have no need to 
find Brill to do that.” 

He glanced from the corner of his eye at his father, and observing a 
look of horror on his face, he continued, 

“ Brill has been guilty of felony, no doubt, and we are innocently un- 
married, eh ? That’s the situation, eh ? Suppose we have it put right, 
eh ?” And he looked his father full in the face. 

“ Good God ! Geoffrey, what are you talking about ?” exclaimed the 
head of the house. 

“ The honor of the farriily, dad ! Ha, ha ! All right, dad ; I was only 
joking. The honor of the family is such a capital joke.” 

“ Ah,” added Geoffrey, “ you don’t think the ‘ honor of the family ’ 
needs that sacrifice? Nor more do I. Suppose you leave the matter to 
me ; and if any ideas occur to you about the future marriage, let me know. 
Yes ; we must consider the honor of the family, above all things.” . 

“ Here, gar§on, deux petites ver»;es du cognac !” 


Chapter XII 


A LITTLE LEGACY 

Torrington Square is one of the vestiges of an earlier metropolitan 
respectability. It consists of two rows of very tall, thin houses, divided 
by a narrow strip of railed garden ground, in which, are planted a few 
hardy trees and shrubs that do their best to justify the action of the ar- 
chitect and builder who had the courage to squeeze it in among the more 
pretentious squares around it. Torrington Square is not and never was 
a square, nor even a parallelogram ; and it is recorded in the minds of 
the inhabitants of the district, and especially of the descendants of the 
vestrymen, that a mathematician living in Russell' Square, hard by, at 
the time Torrington Square came into existence, had formally protested 
against its being called a “ Square,” and had applied to the Court of 
King’s Bench for a mandamus to compel the owners and the Vestry to 
amend the name, and to make it consistent with truth and propriety. 
The inhabitants, however, having discovered that there was a covert in- 
tent on the part of the authorities to assent to naming the place Torring- 
ton Rhomboid, out of deference to the sensibilities of the eminent math- 
ematician, assembled in their thousands and riotously demanded the 
retention of the more familiar designation. With a view to enforce 
their opinions, and put their intention beyond doubt, they broke the emi- 
nent piathematician’s windows^ in recognition of his interference, and 
such of them as were Freemasons assembled, as Masons do, upon the 
square in a neighboring hall, and established “the Torrington Lodge,” 
to celebrate their triumph and mark their consistency. 

The square was originally tenanted by an aspiring colony of the penu- 
rious genteel, and struggled vigorously to maintain an air of respectabil- 
ity for several years; but as in course of time the aristocracy departed 
westward, the tall, thin strips of houses, which internally seemed to be 
devoted almost entirely to an arrangement for providing a front door 
and a staircase, became the resource of the retired butler and the ambi- 
tious cook, and to this day is the resort of the genteel lodger. 

Mrs. Littercan had never been a cook, nor Littercan a butler. It has 
already appeared that he was something on the railway, and was usually 
“ down the line.” The Littercans had become lodging-house keepers by 
force of circumstances. They found themselves possessed of a legacy of 
furniture far beyond their needs, and were urged by the possession, be- 


76 


THE VEILED HAND 


yond all power of resistance, to furnish a house and let it out to lodgers, 
although, as Mrs. Littercan frequently reiterated to her confidential 
friends, “ There weren’t no call to do it, no more than nothing.” 

Jemmy, aged nine, was the cause of this unnecessary enterprise on the 
part of the Littercan family. He was a large-headed, flat-faced boy, with 
a turn-up nose and a straight mouth, but he was a sharp boy, and the 
foundation-stone of his mother’s ambitions. He was to have a good 
start in life, and to this end his mother let lodgings and saved money. 

Mrs. Littercan lived in the basement, and Jemmy was hanging up 
“ A Merry Christmas ” on a string across the top panes of the window, 
when he observed an elderly gentleman arrive at the front door. The 
unusual fact was announced, and Mrs. Littercan said it must be the 
doctor come to see Mrs. Lucas; but this was denied by Jemmy, on the 
ground that the gentleman’s hat and the gentleman’s boots were differ- 
ent, he might have said defective and dilapidated, and that the gentle- 
man was smaller and older, and was taking snuff after ringing the bell, 
all of which appearances were against the gentleman being Mrs. Lucas’s 
doctor ; and this Mrs. Littercan found was the case when she opened the 
front door, and showed the gentleman into the front room by the name 
of Barcham. 

“ Barcham, ma’am, of the firm of Barcham, Newmans & Thirl, and by 
appointment with Mrs. Lucas — yes.” 

He said it like an automaton, holding his hat in his hand, and wound 
up his remark by jerking out the monosyllable “yes” after a pause, as 
if he had repeated the statement to himself and desired to confirm its 
accuracy. 

Mrs. Littercan doubted whether Mrs. Lucas could see the gentleman, 
which she was only jest gettin’ about and wasn’t very strong-like.” 

But the old gentleman insisted that he had given her notice in a letter 
of his intended call, that his business was most important, and that it 
would be much to Mrs. Lucas’s advantage to see him. 

All this having been conveyed by Mrs. Littercan to Muriel up-stairs, 
sitting in a cosey easy-chair before the fire, with many wraps on, and 
looking very pale, it was arranged that Julie should take the two elder 
children into the adjoining room, and that the nurse should carry off the 
latest comer up-stairs, during the few minutes the interview should last. 

Mr. Barcham was then admitted — a very old and wrinkled piece of hu- 
manity, brown with age and shrivelled, but mentally as alert as a weasel, 
and as lissome as threescore could possibly allow. 

“Mr. Barcham, I presume?” said Muriel, as she sat with her cheek 
resting on her hand. 

Mr. Barcham gave a little start as he remarked the marvellous beauty 
of the convalescent ; for although he was in no sort a victim to senti- 
ment, and never could depart from the lines of law and practice as set 


A LITTLE LEGACY 


77 


forth by authority and precedent, he was startled by the calm dignity 
and passive resistance of her large dark eyes that concentrated, all un- 
consciously, the silent comraunings of long days and nights alone, for 
she had now for a long time been absolutely alone so far as any inter- 
change of the deeper thoughts and feelings were concerned. 

She seemed to be gradually awakening in her loneliness to the knowl- 
edge that the shadows of the past were closing in — to the fear that a 
declaration was at hand announcing some shameful resolution on Geof- 
frey’s part, presaging sunless wastes of desolation for her future. The 
look of anxious inquiry that followed her first recognition of Mr. Bar- 
cham’s presence was the concentration of all the doubts and fears and 
commanding resolutions of the past five months — of all the patient wait- 
ing and hoping and fell endurance, with not a single ray of hope to in- 
spire her, and nothing even to nerve her to resist the blow of treach*ery 
she felt would come, save the consciousness of helpless probity and the 
daring instinct of the mother. 

Mr. Barcham recovered himself. 

“ Barcham, Newmans & Thirl, ma’am,” said he, “ of whom I am Bar- 
cham — yes.” Then he took a pinch of snuff, saying “Excuse me, 
madam ; it is not, perhaps, agreeable, but it’s necessary — quite necessary, 
and I may say imperative — yes.” 

There was a pause, during which Mr. Barcham sat himself on the edge 
of a chair and produced a letter, unsealed, from his pocket. Holding it 
aloft in his hand, as indicating the necessity for special attention, he 
said, 

“ Madam, we have written you a letter announcing this call. W*e have 
written you another letter specifically dealing with the business of this 
call, in order that Barcham, Newmans & Thirl may be committed to you. 
Some firms are afraid of committino; themselves. We are not. We de- 
sire to commit ourselves, in order that the interests of our clients may be 
protected. We have done so in this case. We place ourselves, ma’am, 
in your power by this letter, in very peculiar circumstances — yes.” 

He finished his remark with the “yes,” as indicating a conclusion, and 
looked at the convalescent, firmly holding the letter aloft as if expecting 
a rejoinder. None came. Muriel was in a sense dazed, and waited. An 
expression of pain overshadowed her features, and the large, dark eyes 
were stricken with an appearance of timid shrinking. Mr. Barcham ob- 
served this, and said he, 

“ Perhaps, ma’am, you would prefer that I read the letter. It .is short, 
and I will explain it to you as I go along. Is that your pleasure? It is? 
— yes,” added the lawyer, remarking a slight inclination of the head by 
Muriel. 

“The letter,” he said, removing it from the envelope, “is as follows: 

“ ‘ To Mrs. Muriel Balmain, commonly known as Mrs. Lucas. 


78 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ ‘ Madam—’ ” 

“Why that form of address?” asked Muriel; “why ‘commonly 
known ?’ ” 

“ We are so instructed,” said Mr. Barcham. “ I apprehend that it is 
not your real name : we are so instructed yes. I will proceed, he add- 
ed, for Muriel had relapsed from the state of violent exaltation into which 
she had been thrown by this disagreeable description of herself to one of 
almost passive endurance. The nervous energy that could sustain a burst 
of indignation was not equal to a steady contest with a legal cog-wheel. 
She listened. 

“ The letter runs,” said Mr. Barcham : 

“ ‘ We are instructed to inform you that we have placed in our hands 
certain shares and coupons, a register of which is herewith annexed by 
the executors of the late Miss Gabrielle Wren, who, in a private memo- 
randum confided to the care of the said executors, are desired by the tes- 
tatrix to set apart the revenues accruing therefrom for your benefit, and 
to be disposed of as you may desire.’ ”• 

“Who is Miss Gabrielle Wren?” asked Muriel, again awakening to a 
sense of the reality of the scene. “ I never heard of her.” 

“ That,” said Mr. Barcham, “ is probably the case. She, however, we 
are instructed, remembers you. The important fact, however, is that we, 
Barcham, Newmans & Thirl, acknowledge to be in possession of securi- 
ties giving you a revenue of at least three hundred, a year, and that we 
commit ourselves to you — commit^ I repeat, ^ourselves to you ’ — to ac- 
count for that sum.” 

Mr.* Barcham stopped and looked at Muriel, weakly lying in her cush- 
ions, amazed, as well he might be, that any human being could sit un- 
moved at the unheard-of occurrence of a circumspect firm of lawyers 
committing themselves to anything, seeing that all their lives are devoted 
to resisting everybody, disputing everything, believing nobody, and do- 
ing nothing unless ordered by the High Court. But Muriel knew none 
of these things. She felt she was alone ; with a nurse, who was a tyrant, 
with Julie, who was a child, and with Mrs. Littercan, who was a dear 
good soul, but only the wife of Littercan “ down the line,” and the moth- 
er of Jemmy, who wheeled Theodora in the perambulator for pleasure — 
good homely people, according to their lights and longings ; but where 
was Geoffrey, the desire of her soul, the light of her eyes, the strength 
of her arm ? She was alone ! 

“ Allow me to take a pinch of snuff,” said Mr. Barcham. “ I assure 
you, madam, it is necessary, though disagreeable, perhaps, to you — yes !” 

Mr. Barcham took a pinch of snuff, with the usual accompaniment of 
the waving of a red silk pocket-handkerchief and the dispersal of atoms 
that had missed their mark over his shirt front and waistcoat. 

“ The letter proceeds, madam,” said Mr. Barcham : 


A LITTLE LEGACY 


79 


\Ve are further instructed that the private memorandum' left by the 
testatrix for the direction of her executors contained a statement to the 
effect that the cause of this setting apart of funds in behalf of yourself 
arose out of an incident that came under the testatrix’s observation when 
you were not more than four years old, and is an expression of her ad- 
miration of your spirit of tenderness and regard for the feelings of dumb 
animals as exemplified in a scene of unexampled anger, in one so young, 
upon observing a person of mature years hold up a little dog by the tail 
to ascertain “ whether he was game.” ’ ” 

“ The observation ‘ whether he was game,’ ” remarked Mr. Barcham, 
apologetically, “ is copied from the actual document — at least so we are 
instructed.” 

“ ‘ We are your obedient servants, Barcham, Newmans & Thirl,’ ” re- 
cited Mr. Barcham, ostentatiously ; and folding up the letter, he placed 
it in its envelope and handed it to Muriel. 

“ We are now,” he said, standing with his hand on the back of his 
chair, ‘‘at your service, madam — yes, at your service. We acknowledge 
the possession of these securities, and propose, with your permission, to 
administer them in your behalf — yes.” 

Muriel did not answer. Her mind seemed numbed. She looked ab- 
sently at the old man as he went on : 

“The executors, madam, of the late Miss Gabrielle Wren leave you in 
undisturbed control of the principal, as they are bound to do ; but they 
recommend us to advise you that the investments should remain undis- 
turbed, and we do so advise, madam. The investments are sound, and 
return a moderate interest. We are of opinion that they cannot be im- 
proved upon with safety — with safety, madam, yes.” 

Muriel sighed, and lifted her hand nervously as she turned her head 
away from the garrulous old man. She was, in fact, unable to follow 
him, and almost indifferent. The consequences of the communica- 
tion in relation to the future of her children had not yet dawned 
upon her. 

“I should add,^’ continued Mr. Barcham, after a short pause, that 
we have already, in accordance with instructions and at the expense of 
the executors, seen to the registration of the various shares in your 
name ; and we have pleasure in assuring you that everything in this re- 
spect is in order. We expect in a few wrecks to have the new scrip 
handed to us in your name, and shall have pleasure in awaiting your in- 
structions. In default of instructions,” added the old man, with special 
emphasis, “ we shall draw the dividends and hand them to you as they 
become due.” Still observing no sign of interest, he compressed his lips, 
coughed, grasped the back of the chair more firmly, and said, as if forc- 
ing his words into the brain of the passive figure, 

“You referred, madam, to the manner in which we addressed you in 


80 


THE VEILED HAND 


that letter. We were so instructed— yes. Have you any further obser-). 
rations to make, or will you ‘permit me? Yes.” 

Muriel still made no answer, and he continued, in hard grinding tones, - 

“ We were anxious to address you in proper legal form, and being so 
instructed, we made inquiries. We cannot find, madam, that you are en- 
titled in law to be addressed by any other than your maiden name. 
There does not appear to have been registration.” 

Muriel started forward. 

“ Of what ?” she asked. 

“ Of marriage.” 

“ There was a license.” 

“Probably, madam, but no registration. Unfortunate, madam, but 
it sometimes happens,” he addeds taking his hat. “ It sometimes hap- 
pens — yes.” 

He was moving to the door as she asked, with a sudden accession of 
energy, 

“You say I am not married?” 

“ That is my belief— my conviction. I advise you to assume that it 
is so. You would be under a misapprehension in thinking otherwise — 
yes.” 

He jerked out the answer in short snatches, as if watching the effect 
of each succeeding stab. He was probably gratified to observe the effect- 
iveness of his method. Muriel’s pale face became paler. She raised her 
hand as if to seize upon some possible support, and without" a cry fainted 
away. 

The lawyer methodically rang the bell, and to Mrs. Littercan, who 
answered as fast as her portly frame permitted, he said, with some trepi- 
dation, 

“ Little legacy, my good woman. Sudden accession of good-fortune 
sometimes overcomes.” 

“ Brute I” exclaimed Mrs. Littercan, rushing to Muriel ; “ the old 
villain I” 

“ No, my good woman, I assure you, a little legacy. She’ll tell you 
when she recovers.” 

And with this he went down-stairs almost as composedly as he had 
come up. 

Five minutes afterwards he was standing at the door of a brougham 
drawn up in the Crescent, in Store Street, in which was seated Geoffrey 
Delfoy, smoking cigarettes by the dozen. 

“Everything quite satisfactory, I assure you,” he was saying — “ every- 
thing.” 

“ You’ve been a frightfully long time about it,” grumbled Geoffrey. " 
“I’m tired to death.” 

“ Not a moment lost, sir, I assure you — not a moment.” 


A LITTLE LEGACY 


81 


“It should have been done quicker, Mr. Barcham. I’m very much 
annoyed. I sha’n’t have time now to get shaved.” 

Mr. Barcham, although a lawyer, and not a moral philosopher, 
watched the departing brougham as he took a pinch of snuff, and reflect- 
ed upon the selfishness of man in relation to woman. 

6 


END OF THE SECOND PERIOD 


THIRD PERIOD: THE SEVENTIES 


Chapter XIII 

WINDOW-DRESSING IN HIGH QUARTERS 

Mr. Alfred Chippering had reviewed the position and resolved upon 
a new course, for the affair of the neckties and cockade had sunk deeply 
into his soul. The Beeches had been let to a couple of maiden ladies of 
the county, and Mr. Chippering approached the question of manorial 
proprietorship on new lines. Recognizing his inability to make money 
and spend it himself at the same time with eflSciency in both cases, he 
made up his mind to achieve his purpose of attacking society by another 
and surer method than that of intrusion among the county families. 
Why he should have wanted to intrude among the county families, or 
attack society in any way whatever, was one of the mysteries of social 
experience that never cease to perplex the world. It is, however, an in- 
variable condition of the imaginative and energetic tradesman or manu- 
facturer to appropriate a new ambition as soon as the old has been grati- 
fied ; and to the truly successful merchant the practice of money-getting 
palls when unalloyed by new and varied excitement. 

Mr. Chippering reasoned with perfect accuracy when he pointed out 
to himself that if he could not make and spend money at the same time 
he must determine which of the two conflicting ambitions of life he 
would make his own. He was wise in concluding that if he spent with- 
out making he would become a pauper, while if he made without spend- 
ing he would get no pleasure from his wealth and pluck, but acrid fruit 
from his labor. He therefore determined to spend, and as a preliminary 
to doing so, as became a possessor of great wealth, he would first pro- 
cure leisure for the new occupation he designed for himself. 

He cast his eyes, in the first place, upon the Chippering young men 
scattered over the country and engaged with all their might and main in 
pouring the wealth of the accumulated farthings into the Chippering 
treasury. He called for the accounts of each of them, pored over them, 
rejected the inefficient young men, made a short leet, and selected one 
who resorted to the flattery of starting an agent of his own. “ That’s 
the man for me,” said Mr, Chippering, and he went to look at him. 


WINDOW-DRESSING IN HIGH QUARTERS 


83 


Among the various aphorisms invented or appropTiated by Mr. Chip- 
pering, as rules for the conduct of business, was one that enjoined upon 
all mankind the expediency of dividing labor, and condemning the folly 
of assuming than any one man can do everything. “ Never do anything 
yourself,” said Mr. Chippering, “ that you can get any one else to do for 
fourpence.” Other men have said, “Never do anything yourself that 
you can get another to do better,” and some have approved the propo- 
sition that no man should do that which he could pay another to do for 
him ; but there was a world of Chippering wisdom in the “ fourpence,” 
suggesting economy, hard bargaining, and wise selection. Mr. Chipper- 
ing selected for the purpose under consideration the young man who 
had created an agent of his own, b\j)ught him back to the head ware- 
house, set him in authority, and kept his eye on him. 

The result was surprising. Mr. Chippering absented himself from the 
warehouse for gradually increasing periods, and finally at the end of four 
years became a member of Parliament, took a house in Berkeley Square, 
and devoted himself wholly to the spending of money, without a thought 
about neckties or muslin, except in his dreams, but some of these it 
must be confessed were trying. 

Part of the great business success of Mr. Chippering consisted in his 
capacity in the art of “dressing the window,” and even when he had 
reached the acme of his commercial success he frequently took a secret 
pride in criticising the drapers’ windows of Regent Street and Oxford 
Street, and fiattering himself as he passed them how much better he 
could have done%it. 

His great idea in dressing a window had been to concentrate his ener- 
gies, if possible, on one thing, which he described in the trade jargon as 
the leading “line.” If it were gloves, he would make pyramids of them, 
castles, checkered patterns, stars, avalanches. If muslins: monuments, 
rainbows, cascades. In all cases he endeavored to fiood the mind of the 
passer-by with the one thing. 

He pursued the same policy in Berkeley Square. He dressed the win- 
dow with Amy, his leading “ line,” and labelled her, “ Two hundred and 
fifty thousand pounds sterling.” He knew she was last season’s goods, 
rather faded in the color, and of an obsolete pattern, but he ventured to 
think the material was substantial and the “ value undeniable.” But.sh© 
did not go off, and the window had to be dressed in another style, with 
Amy as a job lot in the background. 

The fact is, the balls and receptions were not a success from the 
Chippering stand -point. The contractors excelled themsglves — they 
spared neither their resources nor the Chippering treasury — the florist 
revelled in the greatest opportunities he had ever had, and the visitors 
seemed all to enjoy themselves immensely among themselves without any 
regard to the Chipperings, who from all appearances had nothing what- 


84 


THE VEILED HAND 


ever to do with the matter. Despite black velvet, false hair, and marabout 
feathers, Mrs. Chippering entered her drawing-room with a consciousness 
of impending failure ; and she left it, after the departure of her guests, 
with the feelings of a mill-horse going to his stable. She would rather 
have cleaned the door-step than preside at a ball ; but “ Chippering was 
such a wilful man, and would have them.” So the season was gone 
through in Berkeley Square, and at his close “ the fashionable intel- 
ligence” announced the departure of Mrs. and Miss Chippering to Hom- 
burg. 

Mr. Chippering, as “the fashionable ‘intelligence ” did not announce, 
took a month with the Chippering young men, and was gratified to find 
that his wealth increased in proposition as he left the young men alone. 
The great question of making and spending at the same time was thus 
solved, and the member of Parliament having “disposed of certain 
matters of importance to his constituency,” which was the way the 
fashionable intelligence described the return of the member to the at- 
mosphere of muslins and hosiery, joined his family on the Riviera, 
whither they had migrated, towards the close of October, thoroughly 
satisfied with himself and his affairs on all points, except in the small 
matters of the Berkeley Square window-dressing, concerning which he 
conversed with Mrs. Chippering during an afternoon walk, in the spirit 
of the haberdasher remonstrating with one of his shop-walkers. 

“ The result, Mrs. Chip,” said he, “ has not been satisfactory. It has 
been very costly, and it has made ns no return.” 

“I’m not surprised at that,” answered Mrs. Chippering, trailing labo- 
riously along a promenade that she wished was in Jericho, and still more 
wished herself in Camberwell. “You know I hate it, Alfred. I hate 
pretending, and the like.” 

“Now, Mrs. Chip, you’re wrong,” said the little man. “You’re 
making a mistake, Mrs. Chip. You’re not going the right way about it, 
Mrs. Chip. You’re not doing the proper thing, Mrs. Chip.” 

“ No, Alfred, I dare say I’m not ; but I can’t help it, because I don’t 
like it, and I can’t change my nature. So there’s an end of it.” 

“No, Mrs. Chip, not quite an end of it. There’s something more. 
If you won’t do a thing, you won’t, and we shall have to make a change, 
and the change will cost money, and you are responsible for the sacrifice.” 

“No, Alfred,” responded Mrs. Chip. “Not me responsible. I only 
want to live quiet and comfortable at home. I’m not the least anxious 
about society and this sort of thing,” flinging her hand testily at the 
highly ornamental promenaders. “ I’m a plain woman, and I don’t like 
grandeur and flummery and things. I didn’t like The Beeches, and I 
don t like Berkeley Square, and I don’t like riding about in a carriage 
and pair. I prefer Margate and a camp-stool.” 

Oh ! said Chippering, at this sudden and most unusual outburst, 


WINDOW-DRESSING IN HIGH QUARTERS 


85 


and he pondered in silence over the diversity of tastes discovered by 
circumstances in a circle so small even as his own family trio. 

His own tastes were cosmopolitan. At least he said so. He did as Rome 
did — preferred as many Romes as possible — and smiled and strutted and 
made himself busy wherever he went. He even went to Monte Carlo, 
cautious, unspeculative trader as he was, and responded to what he con- 
ceived to be the requirements of his position by patronizing the tables. 
He risked three maximums at trente et quarante^ won two of them, and 
retired with the air of a man who had fulfilled his social mission. The 
Prince of Monaco could expect no more of him. 

The opening of the new year found Mr. Chippering working on •surer 
lines. The ineffectual ball and supper must give way to the parliament- 
ary dinner-party. He took the largest house he could get in the neigh- 
borhood of Queen Anne’s Gate, and it was put about the House that 
Chippering was going to assist the Whips by keeping a dozen good 
diners at hand throughout the sitting, and bring them back at ten with- 
out fail, or earlier if summoned. Chippering was regarded as a good 
member on this account, but he rather belied his reputation by mixing 
up parties at his dinner-table with what some of the stricter disciples 
declared to be an indecent recklessness. He defended himself by assur- 
ing his friends that he saved the Whips the trouble of pairing, and with 
that strict attention to business forms which had characterized him 
from his youth up, he always handed a list of his dinner-table to the 
Whips that they might see how cleverly he neutralized the absenteeism 
of his own side. This device frequently resulted in Chippering and his 
dinner-party being left alone when the town was being scoured for 
votes. 

Amy rather liked the change of programme, and her mother felt the 
new order of things was more within her grasp. It was more within 
her grasp, because the arrangements were placed quite beyond her con- 
trol, and she had nothing to do but sit at table with the guests and see 
the machinery work. It worked admirably. Amy’s pleasure consisted 
chiefly in the discovery that parliamentary dinners removed her from 
competition, and concentrated male attention upon herself. The balls 
and receptions had been a trial to her mother, but to her they had 
been a source of immeasurable bitterness. No humane person, con- 
templating the position of Miss Amy Chippering in her mother’s draw- 
ing-room, not surrounded but in proximity to a dozen or so of the 
very best possible specimens of feminine beauty, receiving attention 
from a corresponding number of smart men, could have failed to pity 
her solitary condition. The bitterness of her feelings was aggravated by 
the knowledge that, while her “ Pa ” had designed the assemblage ex- 
pressly for her gratification and advancement, its sweets were stolei> by 
the daughters of others. 


86 


. THE VEILED HAND 


The parliamentary dinner-parties were therefore as balm to her wounded 
spirit. She dyed her eyebrows and her hair, and smiled once more. 
Her capacity for smiling was prodigious, but no wonder, for she had an 
excellent row of teeth, and when the faded drab of her hair and eye- 
brows were brought up to a rich brown not inconsistent with her com- 
plexion, she was quite presentable. 

Chippering, in accordance with his ordinary business processes, left the 
arrangement of his dinner-parties to an impecunious and amiable Irish 
peer, the Viscount Portaully, whose opinion on such matters was univer- 
sally respected in the House. The Viscount Portaully, in fact, became 
one of the Chippering young men, and was put in charge of the enter- 
tainment department, in consideration, by tacit consent, of his always 
including himself among the entertained. He was over fifty, had very 
fine whiskers, and had fought in the Crimea for his country. He was 
loud in his praises of Amy, and regarded those expressions of admiration 
as part of the contract. He swore he would have married her himself if 
it hadn’t been for the existence of a young lady, who, although she had 
committed bigamy three deep so far as intent was concerned, was yet, 
through the eccentricities of the law, not only the lawful wife of the 
viscount, but could not be separated from him until death intervened in 
place of the queen’s proctor. 

Geoffrey Delfoy had been elected to this Parliament for a manufact- 
uring constituency, and in due time he was selected by the viscount as 
eligible for the Chippering dinner-party. His father had been defeated. 
The majority of two had become a minority of 107 ; the mortgagee of 
the Luckross estate had foreclosed, and the Delfoys were at Aix. Geof- 
frey as yet had not complied with the conditions of the bargain struck 
at Nice, by going into the City, or anywhere else, to renovate the fort- 
unes of the Delfoys, and had maintained the traditions of the family 
only by continuing to forestall its revenues. 

Amy was charmed with Colonel Delfoy, so elegant, so interesting, so 
engaging, she told the viscount. 

‘•Oh, Colonel Delfoy, will you belong to our society?” she asked, 
with all her teeth on view. “ You would be so useful with your great 
experience.” 

She languished airily, with her head on one side, her forehead creased, 
and her whole manner betokening interrogation of the acute order. 

Geoffrey assayed the £250,000, and remarked to himself that the 
dross was alarming in quantity, and would prove desperately hard to 
neutralize. He would not have objected to the freckles or the form, 
but the teeth counted for very little beside the manner. Still, the 
manner had its qualities, not for grace or charm, but for opportunity. 
Geoffrey thought so frivolous a mind would be amenable to blandish- 
ments of the more frivolous order, for it must be remembered that 


WINDOW-DRESSING IN HIGH QUARTERS 87 

he had entered the house with full knowledge of the label on the 
goods. 

“ What society is that, Miss Chippering ?” he asked, in his most agree- 
able manner. “ Something generally interesting 

“Oh, most interesting. Is it not, viscount? ‘The Unusual Morality 
Association,’ colonel,” she answered, regarding him with a look of satis- 
faction, as if she anticipated complete surrender on his part. 

“ What are its objects ?” asked Geoffrey, bowing. 

“ Why, of course, colonel, to make people unusually moral, especially 
in the East End.” 

“.That’s very good of you,” said Geoffrey; “but I’m afraid I cannot 
, assist, I’m at present so absorbed.” 

“ Ob dear, colonel, you are absorbed,” she exclaimed, with a languish- 
ing air. “ How delightful it is to feel absorbed. I do so like to feel 
absorbed. It’s entrancing,” she exclaimed, whisking her fan in the air 
and making as though she would fly in pursuit of the various ethereal 
emotions suggested by the condition of being absorbed. 

They went down to dinner. The Earl of Feeldmore, a young peer of 
benevolent impulses and weak judgment, took down the lady of the 
house, while Chippering and the viscount conducted a new and prominent 
member named Bowdler, who had carried an agricultural constituency 
in the face of the landed interest because he had been a collier and was 
a trades-union leader. He was a high-shouldered, bull-necked man, 
with a stern brow, black, shaggy eyebrows, piercing eyes, and a hard, 
firm mouth. The viscount was engaged in an attempt to tame him for 
the benefit of his party ; and Bowdler was not averse to the treatment so 
far as the Chippering dinner-table was concerned, especially as no con- 
ditions were attached to his acceptance of courteous hospitality. 

Geoffrey sat between the mother and the daughter, with the earl op- • 
posite, and they had not advanced very far with the dinner when Amy 
began again about her society : said the earl was president, and that the 
colonel must join as “a vice-president, or a committeeman, or some- 
thing it would be “ so nice,” she said. 

Geoffrey looked into his plate for a moment or two, as if in search of 
an idea; and then, turning to his importunate neighbor, asked, 

“ What could I possibly do, Miss Chippering, to aid your society ? 
Nothing, I fear.” 

“ Oh yes, colonel, you could do lots. You could get subscriptions.” 

The colonel frowned. 

“ Perhaps I could,” he said. “ But I could do that without being on 
the committee. How much do you want?” 

“ Ten thousand pounds,” said Miss Chippering, as if she were asking 
for £f box of chocolates. 

“ And our friend the earl is your president ?” 


88 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ Yes.” 

“ When would you like to have this £10,000?” 

“Oh, as soon as possible; for there’s a lot of midnight shelters to 
build, are there not, Mr. President ?” 

The earl smiled feebly, and said there was a great deal to do with the 
money. 

“ I suppose you’ll give me three months to pull it in for you — eh ?” 
asked Geoffrey, with a complacent smile. 

“ Oh yes, and longer,” said Amy, “ if you begin at once with some 
of it.” 

“I think it can be done in three months.” said Geoffrey, meditating 
over some vol au vent. “ In three months,” he repeated, “ upon con- 
ditions.” 

The excitable Amy clapped her hands, called upon “ Pa ” to say it was 
delightful, remonstrated with “Ma” for not thanking the colonel for his 
generosity, and asked the earl whether it wouldn’t be ever so much better 
than a bazaar — all of which questions w'ere appropriately answered with 
such reservation by the elder and more experienced member of the com- 
pany as knowledge of the colonel’s financial relations naturally provoked. 
Indeed, no one at the table but Amy regarded Geoffrey’s observations as 
anything but a joke. 

“And what are your conditions, my boy?” the visqount inquired, in 
the hope of some amusement. 

“Very simple,” said Geoffrey. “I should want some of the earl’s 
note-paper, and authority for a man I know to write some letters in the 
earl’s name.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Amy, “that you can have;” though if she had seen 
the earl’s face she would have been somewhat doubtful on the subject. 

“And what else, my boy?” asked the viscount, with a humorous 
twinkle of the eye. 

“ Nothing,” said Geoffrey. 

“ You 11 not get the money,” said Chippering, whose intere'st was sud- 
denly awakened by the daring proposal. 

I will, and I bet you an even thousand I do,” said Geoffrey, whose eye 
gleamed and whose nature seemed fired with an unnatural enthusiasm. 
His aspect sobered the volatile Amy, and she looked on as if the game 
had gone beyond her powers. She felt as if she had fired a train of 
gunpowder. 

This was Bowdler’s opportunity : the hard-headed, practical collier, who 
had rammed trucks of coal along the pit rails with his head, and had be- 
come a leader of men because he had rammed the trucks with energy and 
determination. 

“Tell us your plan, colonel,” said Bowdler. 

“ Is it a bet ?” asked Geoffrey. 


WINDOW-DRESSING IN HIGH QUARTERS 89 

“Yes,” said Chipperiug, who thought the risk worth running, it was 
so very small. 

“ Then I’ll tell you ; but mind, if the conditions are not complied with, 
and I don’t get the opportunity, the bet is off.” 

Chippering nodded assent; and the colonel said, with emphasis, 

“I’ll get you £10,000 in three months for this or any other society of 
a fairly taking object if the earl will give me some of his note-paper and 
the authority to write in his name. Will he do it?” 

Amy did not say “ Yes ” this time. The energy developing was much 
beyond her, and she waited for the earl, who by this time presented a 
very miserable appearance. 

“ I should see the letters,” said he. 

“ No,” said Geoffrey, “ you will receive the answers and the checks, 
and you may stop at any time if you don’t like the way the thing runs — 
only, in that event the bet is off,” he added, nodding to Chippering. 

“ But a fellow ought to know what letters another fellow is writing for 
him, eh ? Shouldn’t he, now, eh ?” pleaded the earl. 

“ There’s no necessity,” said Geoffrey, blandly. “ If you tell your sec- 
retary to write a note asking for a subscription, you don’t read the note, 
do you?” 

“ No,” said the earl ; “ but that’s different, you know. He writes in 
his own name.” 

“ And that’s why the subscriptions don’t come in,” said Geoffrey. 

“But why don’t you write in your name?” asked Feeldmore. 

“ Because I’m not an earl and the president,” said Geoffrey ; and then, 
turning to Amy, he added, in a lower and sympathetic tone, “ I’m afraid 
your president is not interested in your society.” 

The earl repudiated this suggestion, said he was very much interested, 
but he continued plaintively to repeat that it would be very singular to 
be writing letters to people without knowing it. 

“ What security would the earl have,” asked Chippering, “ that the 
money would all go to the society?” 

“ The security that he would receive it himself at Charling Court, his 
own place. What more could he want ? The whole point of my scheme 
IS that the earl applies for the subscriptions, and receives the answers, 
and sends the checks with the letters to the secretary ; who banks the 
checks, and sends the letters and official receipts to me. The earl, natu- 
rally being cautious, encloses these receipts to his correspondents, with a 
note of thanks — or rather, my man does so for him. I bind myself to 
take care of the president.” 

“ Then why can’t the earl’s private secretary do it ?” asked Chippering. 

. “ Because he doesn’t know whom to address, nor how to address them,” 

said Geoffrey. “ The writing of letters for subscriptions is an art. The 
earl could not do it, nor could his secretary. I suppose, Feeldmore, you 


90 


THE VEILED HAND 


could not name ten people outside your own acquaintance that you know 
would bleed if you wrote them a note.” 

Feeldmora shook his head, assenting helplessly. 

“ Then let me tell you,” said Geoffrey, aggressively, “ that my man has 
got an index of every benevolently disposed person in the kingdom, with 
a record against his name of the kind of charity he is disposed to, the 
time of year he subscribes, and the amount he is likely to give if he is 
properly tickled. It is on this information that the letters are written, and 
I say I’ll get you your ten thousand in three months. Is it to be done?” 

Feeldmore’s misery increased. He said he thought he ought to ask 
his solicitor. 

“ I shall be sorry. Miss Chippering, for your sake,” said Geoffrey, re- 
garding her with a sympathetic look, “ if the earl asks his solicitor’s 
opinion. There will be no ten thousand in that case. There are certain 
things solicitors should not be asked. A solicitor is bound to give a me- 
chanically safe opinion. • If your president cannot allow me to use his 
name to collect subscriptions for you, then morality must remain where 
it is.” 

Geoffrey went on eating his dinner, and all eyes turned to the unhappy 
Feeldmore, who, in his wretchedness, succumbed. 

“ Of course, colonel, if you put it in that way,” said he, “ it makes a 
difference; and of course you’ll be responsible.” 

“ Obviously,” exclaimed Geoffrey, “ I take the entire responsibility.” 

So it was arranged ; and the earl, after having the whole process again 
explained to him, without his understanding it in the least, promised to 
write two letters, one to his stationer, authorizing a supply of his usual 
note-paper to the demand of the bearer, and the other authorizing 
Colonel Delfoy, M. P., to have letters written in his name soliciting sub- 
scriptions for the Unusual Morality Society. Moreover, he wrote them. 

These formalities were completed m the drawing-room, where Miss 
Chippering, having recovered from the restraint of the dinner-table, ap- 
proached Geoffrey with her accustomed air of archness and frivolity, and 
tapping him on the arm with her fan, said, “You are clever, awfully 
clever!” And she turned up her eyes and showed' her teeth, and gave 
expression in her own particular way to her appreciation of the latest 
possible admirer of her varied charms. She then relapsed into her cus- 
tomary state of languor, and assumed her favorite role of dreamy enthu- 
siasm. She, gradually working her way round from philanthropy and 
benevolence generally to the Society for Preventing Cruelty to Animals, 
then became plaintive on the subject of cats, and their cries of anguish 
in the still night, and finally dashed at Delfoy with something thoroughly 
in her own way. 

“ Animal life is very troublesome, don’t you think so, colonel ?” she 
asked. 


WINDOW-DRESSING IN HIGH QUARTERS 


91 


“ Yes, yes,” said Geoffrey, dreamily. 

“ Very troublesome, and very inconvenient, colonel. Don’t you think 
so ?” 

“ Oh yes, sometimes.” 

“ Oh, always, I think. Animal life moves about, you know, colonel, 
and that involves a great deal, colonel.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said Geoffrey, “ a great deal.” 

“ A very great deal,” she continued. “ I’m so glad, colonel, you’re 
philosophical; it’s so nice. Wouldn’t you like to be a vegetable?” 

“ Well, no, I haven’t thought that out.” 

“ Oh, you should think it out, colonel. Vegetables have repose. So 
much better than animals, always moving about and restless. How nice 
it would be to be a rose, for instance.” 

“ Prickly,” said Geoffrey. “ I should prefer to be a cabbage — a sum- 
mer cabbage.” 

“ Oh no, colonel, they boil cabbages ; and cabbage-water is very nasty,” 
remarked Amy, recalling her early experiences in the modest Chippering 
kitchen. “ Ah, colonel, you’re laughing at me. I’m afraid you’re not 
philosophical, but you’re very clever. Poor earl, how you frightened 
him ; but you must get the ten thousand, or I’ll never forgive you.” 

That same night Geoffrey Delfoy wrote a note to W. Shout, Esq., of 
Dane’s Inn : 

“ Dear Shout, — Come round to-morrow early. Good business ; and 
on the road leave the order for note-paper as the enclosed from the Earl 
of Feeldmore. I have another for the handwriting, but copy this. 

“ Yours, G. D.” 


Chapter XIV 
UNUSUAL MORALITY 

Mr. William Shout was busy. He had been busy for three months 
in the interest of the Unusual Morality Association, and was in a state 
of wild excitement at the success of what he called working the sic vos 
non vohis indices. This is the language in which he described the foun- 
dation of the systematized begging-letter operation arranged for by Geof- 
frey Delfoy with the co-operation of the Earl of Feeldmore. He called 
it “ indices,” because he had in his possession a number of books, pre- 
pared with enormous labor by an old friend of his, then dead, whom he 
irreverently styled the old “ Duster,” containing the names of all the peo- 
ple discoverable who were philanthropically disposed, alphabetically in- 
dexed and numbered. 

Having thus labelled them, like so many barrels of generous liquor 
only waiting to be tapped to rejoice the heart of man, they were indexed 
in other books under subjects. The number of those who had a fancy 
for alleviating physical distress were recorded under the various designa- 
tions of hospitals, almshouses, shelters, blind, cripples, incurables, occa- 
sional grants, annuals; those who were controlled in their selection by 
piety were recorded under missions, church-building, lay service, clerical 
stipend, and sundry other distinctive headings. Then, again, another 
index was devoted to the times of giving, and all those benevolent peo- 
ple who set apart a tenth, say at the quarter days, were here set down to 
be pounced upon at the very time they had their purses filled and their 
imaginations revelling in the prospect of doing somebody a good turn. 
Mr. Shout called them sic vos non vohis indices because his old friend had 
grown the sheep and he was shearing them. 

The master-stroke of the system was the way in which the Earl of 
Feeldmore, in the person of Mr. William Shout and his myrmidons, fol- 
lowed up these benevolently disposed persons, recorded their excuses, and 
reminded them a little later that their time had come, and that he would 
now take no denial. Who, among the benevolently disposed, could resist 
the importunity of a noble earl in the interest of Unusual Morality ? 

If the earl had only seen his letters, what a wonderfully high opinion 
he would have had of himself. The delicate way in which he alluded to 
the disposition of his correspondent, the special character of the work his 
correspondent favored, the intimate acquaintance the earl seemed to 


UNUSUAL MORALITY 


93 


. have of the idiosyncracies in alms-giving of all those whom he applied to, 
I and the easy way in which he showed how the Unusual Morality Asso- 
ciation, in some of its departments of well-doing, exactly coincided with 
the object most applauded by the particular correspondent he addressed 
would have filled him with admiration, as it did the donors with grati- 
tude at being asked by a noble earl to do the very thing their hearts 
inclined to. 

The key to this admirable adaptation of means to an end was centred 
in the condition imposed by Geoffrey Delfoy in the interest of Shout 
that, apart from a trifling consideration of a commission of 25 per 
cent, of the moneys collected, all letters, whether of refusal or com- 
pliance, should be transmitted to him. In every instance the spirit of 
these letters was recorded on the page devoted to the donor in question, 

I where every transaction with him had been noted from the very first, 
long before the indexes had come into Shout’s hands, and it was in this 
way the Earl of Feeldmore was able to address his correspondents with 
so much knowledge and appreciation. 

What a curious revulsion of feeling would have occurred both to the 
earl and his correspondent if they could have seen Mr. William Shout at 
work, assisted by a short, stout, mulberry-nosed gentleman of about sixty, 
whom Shout referred to as the bishop. He had been educated at Cam- 
bridge for the Church, but had never been ordained, so it was natural and 
proper Mr. Shout should call him “ the Bishop ” in derision. His name 
was Burley ; and on the particular afternoon in question he was taking 
down the names of sundry obstinate philanthropists, at whom, in Mr. 
Shout’s language, the earl was going to have “ another shy.” 

Burley was a capital writer, of whose performances the earl would 
have had no cause to be ashamed. He not only wrote letters of a most 
insinuating and persuasive character, but in a handwriting sufliciently il- 
legible, without being either slovenly or incomprehensible, as to pass 
muster for the most aristocratic correspondent in the world. Burley did 
only special letters, and he was writing the addresses from Shout’s dicta- 
tion of the several cases to be dealt with, and making notes of the special 
points in each. They sat at a round table, and Burley, being near-sighted, 
had his head bent over his work, and muttered as he wrote, “ Religious, 
declined soup-kitchen because parson Low Church.” 

“ What’s the next ?” 

“ A lady,” said Shout, “ who told you a month ago she’d think about 
it. Letter No. 2472. She’s a commiserating soul, and good for a hun- 
dred, if properly handled. Handle her properly, my bishop.” 

There was a feeble knock at the door at this point, and a little old 
woman wearing a white apron and a large bonnet appeared. She didn’t 
speak, but nodded her head backward mysteriously and retired. It was 
Mrs. Fludge, the laundress, who, in the course of this great rush of pros- 


94 


THE VEILED HAND 


perity and business, was almost constantly in attendance. Shout under- 
stood the signal, and went outside to find Geoffrey Delfoy in the passage, 
looking rather wild, as if his mind were not quite at rest. They went 
into the bedroom, and Delfoy, sitting down on the iron bedstead, drew 
a large bundle of letters from his pocket and handed them to Shout, with 
a gloomy scowl that caused his friend the gravest apprehension. 

“ Whom have you inside ?” asked Geoffrey, with an inclination of his 
head in the direction of the sitting-room. 

“ Only the bishop,” said Shout. “ I’ll go and start him home. He’s 
got enough to go on with.” 

Shout disappeared to carry out this intention, and during his absence 
Delfoy sat with his head bowed down and his hands clasped between his 
knees, muttering anathemas. Presently he yawned, uttered a monosyl- 
labic imprecation in common use, and shook himself. 

“ Come on, my brick,” cried Shout, “ the coast’s clear.” And then 
turning to the kitchen, as he let Geoffrey Delfoy, M.P., find his way to 
the sitting-room, he enjoined Mrs. Fludge to be sure to have a good stock 
of kippers, with streaky bacon, new-laid eggs, and fresh butter in the 
pantry before she left for the night. “ Drink is all very well,” said he 
apologetically to Delfoy, on joining him, “ but I’m not a snipe, and man 
cannot live by suction alone ; in fact, the example of the snipe is a bad 
one. Mrs. Fludge prefers drink, and she thinks I do, but I object to be 
left alone with one kipper and no butter. It’s injurious. It leads to 
dissipation.” 

“ Yes,” said Geoffrey ; “ but at the sflme time I should like a little 
brandy now. I’m in a bad way, and want pulling together.” 

“You look it,” said Shout, who produced the brandy with alacrity; 
“ but why in the name of all that’s sacred you should be in a bad way 
it would puzzle the Archangel Gabriel to say.” 

“ I’ve had nothing but bad luck all the year,” said Geoffrey, fiercely — 
“a bad Derby, a bad Ascot, a bad Doncaster. I’ve lost steadily all 
through. I haven’t won a single bet of any consequence,* and I’ve just 
had three days and three nights of whist, and lost steadily all through 
that also — I haven’t had a single hand worth talking about the whole 
time.” 

“ Indeed,” said Shout, “ and what’s the moral ?” 

“ The devil.” 

“ Certainly,” said Shout. 

“ But I haven’t come here to talk about myself,” said Delfoy, “ but 
about business. Here’s the last batch of letters and receipts for remit- 
tances,” he added, putting them on the table, but keeping his hand upon 
them as he continued. “This makes a total of £10,014; and I want 
you to close up as quick as you can, for fear you overdo it.” 

“ Oh,” said Shout, looking at his friend very keenly. “ Anything else ?” 


UNUSUAL MORALITY 


95 


“ Yes,” said Delfoy, producing his pocket-book. Here’s ten hundred- 
' pound notes for your share of the commission ; and you’ll hardly believe 
! it, but that hound of a secretary was actually beginning to talk about the 
I largeness of the sum, and that he must see his committee about it.” 

“You don’t say so,” remarked Shout, gathering up the notes with a 
: hand trembling with excitement, “ an unconscionable villain.” 

“Of course there’s no denying that 25 per cent, is a full commission 
for collecting subscriptions — quite a full commission — and when it comes 
to odd guineas and half-sovereigns here and there its little enough, and 
no doubt £2500 is a large sum to pay out as commission,' but so is 
ten thousand to drag in. I put it to the rascal — the dishonorable cad — 
that he had no conception of the costliness of the organization you, my 
friend, had to keep up. I explained to him that your intelligence depart- 
ment cost you five thousand a year, and then I told him that if he didn’t 
give me the money to enable me to discharge my undertaking with you 
I would go to Feeldmore and get him dismissed.” 

“ And then he cashed up ?” 

“ Yes, then he cashed up ; and you’d better stop tapping your mine of 
snobbery for the present and give it a rest. And now, my dear Shout, 
I must make a painful confession. I’m stone broke, and I want you to 
lend me one of those notes to put me as far as Nice, where there’s a 
little bet I propose to take up — the one solitary bit of luck I’ve had this 
year.” 

“ Certainly,” said Shout. “ One’s enough, eh ?” 

“Yes, one’s enough. Very absurd my borrowing this of you, but 
what could I do otherwise ? Every penny of my ready money’s gone, 
and I brought this round for fear I should encroach on it.” 

As he said this he reclined on an old-fashioned double-ended sofa, and 
rested his head on a pile of newspapers covered by an old fur coat. 
Having folded up the note and put it in his pocket, he seemed more at 
ease, and began lighting a cigarette. 

“ I shouldn’t have grumbled if you had encroached on it, old man, but 
you are a fellow for running through money.” Shout looked at his 
friend as he said this with the eye of a connoisseur. “ Nothing seems 
to stop you.” 

“ Nothing will, but I’m going to turn over the customary new leaf. 
I’m going to begin to make money. Dice and cards are all very well 
for amusement, but they’re devilish uncertain, unless you mark ’em or 
load ’em.” 

“ Cheating’s dangerous,” remarked the moral Shout, with a moral 
shake of the head. “ Its not regarded exactly with approval. It’s not 
quite recognized as high-toned, you know.” 

“ Who talks of cheating ?” said Geoffrey. “ You don’t take me for a 
fool, do you? I say I’m going to enter upon an entirely new course. I 


96 


THE VEILED HAND 


% 


propose to handle one or two little matters of business shortly that will 
turn me in a lot of money, and the backs of the cards in the game will 
all be marked. They always are in commerce as far as I can make out, 
and the winner is the man who marks most cards in the pack.” 

There was a tap at the door, and Mrs. Fludge introduced her head and 
one hand, as if she were holding the door closed against an importunate 
crowd behind her. Thus stationed she announced, 

“ The girl Vickers.” 

Geoffrey took advantage of the digression to make an end of his visit. 
Having put on his hat and coat, he said, tapping the pocket where he 
presumed Shout had put the notes, 

“ Country tour, I suppose, eh ? Booking dates already, eh ? Enor- 
mous fortune to start with, eh ? Dead certainty to begin with, eh ? And 
dead broke to finish with, eh ?” 

He emphasized each question with a tap and. a grin, and brought him- 
self into quite a good-humor by contemplating the development of his 
friend’s particular folly. Experience had taught him that his friend’s 
sole ambition in life was to be a theatrical manager. 

No, upon my soul, old man ; I’ve got a wonderful piece,” expostulated 
Shout. 

“ No doubt, no doubt. They are always wonderful pieces before the 
curtain goes up. But never mind me. Go ahead. I’m not a pattern 
of prudence. One way’s as good as another, for the coin will go. It 
always does, my friend, and I’m afraid we’re bad men of business.” 

“ But the title of the piece alone will draw ; and I play the villain my- 
self,” said Shout, expostulating. 

“ Quite right, Shout, quite right. Always play the villain. He’s much 
more interesting than the painfully correct hero, even if he does come to 
grief. But don’t be too realistic ; and whatever you do, don’t play a par- 
son,” with which pleasantry, and an extra dig in the neighborhood of 
Shout’s waistcoat pocket, Geoffrey Delfoy went his way, shaking his 
head and repeating his determination to make a new move of surprising 
excellence and unquestionable merit. He was in a reforming humor, and 
thought about his distressful condition all the way through the Strand, 
past the National Gallery, and away up Waterloo Place to the Albany. 

He let himself in, according to custom, with his latch-key ; and entering 
his room, sat down in his easy-chair with the same air of listless dejec- 
tion that had characterized his manner throughout the day. 

His man Dubley appeared without being summoned, and stood within 
the door ready for action. He was a perfectly straight little man, with 
a large head, and clothed himself in very close-fitting garments. He 
stood with his arras uplifted, as indicating his readiness to do something 
in the way of service ; and, with his big head slightly on one side (as if 
he would catch the faintest whisper of command), he had the appearance 


UNUSUAL MORALITY 


97 


I of being a wooden man out of a toy-shop worked by springs. He was 
a legacy from his brother George, and had a sort of vested interest in the 
I family, having descended from a long line of Dubleys, whose connection 
with the Delfoys, in the various capacities of game-keepers, lodge-keepers, 
and gardeners, had continued during many generations, and had origi- 
nated at some remote period of antiquity so remote that history con- 
tained no record of it. 

This particular Dubley was the last of his race, and although not 
realizing the popular conception of an old and trusted servant, his devo- 
tion to his master knew no bounds, and his sense of responsibility was 
equal to that of a member of the Cabinet at least. He was also a moral 
philosopher of the first order. 

“ Dubley, I’m very tired,” said Geoffrey, in tones which indicated a 
sense of relief in addressing a sympathetic ear. 

“ Yes, sir. Perhaps a little nourishment would be advisable, sir, if I 
might suggest it,” said Dubley. 

“ A little brandy, Dubley.” 

“ And soda, sir,” said Dubley, who forthwith administered the com- 
pound. 

“I’m very tired, indeed, Dubley,” said Geoffrey, after drinking two- 
thirds of the contents of the tumbler. 

“ Perhaps the haction of the ’art is a little low, sir, and wants stimu- 
lating.” 

“ It wants rest, Dubley.” 

“ Probably, sir,” said Dubley, with alacrity. “ The Legislature, sir, is 
a more severer tax than people imagines, sir ; and it’s within my expe- 
rience, sir, as a man should ’old ’isself in.” 

Geoffrey nodded approvingly, which encouraged Dubley to proceed. 

“ The henergies, sir, mustn’t be worked hextra ’ard when the action 
of the ’art is low.” 

“Quite right, Dubley,” said Geoffrey, “and I’m very low npw — very 
low. I go to Nice to-morrow, and to-night I’ll dine off a plain mutton 
chop and go to bed at 9.30.” 

“Very good, sir,” said Dubley, who reflected deeply on the state of 
affairs during the process of preparation, and remarked with concern 
upon the continued depression of his master. His very presence within 
fifty miles of Charing Cross during the autumn months was a social 
irregularity, and quite suflBcient to cause Dubley concern, without the 
knowledge of all the gloomy recriminations then passing through Del- 
foy’s brain. 

To be sitting there deploring his follies, and building future successes 
upon angry resolutions, with a borrowed hundred-pound note as his sole 
available capital, was a curious and yet not unprecedented position for 
the representative of the Delfoys. What really troubled Delfoy, how- 

7 


98 


THE VEILED HAND 


ever, was the incomprehensible fact that he invariably did absurd things 
with his money immediately after making the most solemn promises to 
himself that in the particular instance under consideration he would be- 
have prudently. The resolutions he made on this occasion, however, were 
to be as curbs of steel upon his thoughts and actions ; and he would be- 
come a very bondsman to wise resolutions. 

He drank a bottle of champagne with his jnutton chop, and thought 
it did him good. He became more philosophical and argumentative 
after his dinner, and began lecturing himself as if he were somebody 
else to whom he felt compelled to give some sound advice. 

“ You see,” said he, “ we shall all go to the devil if we don’t start on 
a new tack. We’ve positively nothing left to raise any money on. I’m 
afraid the old man is not prudent.” 

Having made this sage reflection he went on smoking ; and now and 
then nodded his head at the fireplace as some unusually brilliant reflec- 
tion passed through his mind. “ Yes, yes,” he said, approvingly, as he 
finished the cigarette and flung it into the fire. “ Yes, I’ll do it. I can- 
not say that it will be agreeable, but it’s the only course ; and the sooner 
it’s done the better. There must be no delay. 

The idea, whatever it was, appeared to give him comfort. He smiled, 
walked round the room, took a liqueur of brandy, and resumed his 
seat with the same absorbed air. He thrust his hands into his trousers 
pockets, stretched his feet out on the fender, and with his head bent for- 
ward, moodily contemplated the dancing flames. 

“ It’s not pleasant, but its the fact,” said Geoffrey Delfoy the moralist 
to Geoffrey Delfoy the delinquent; “things are not going on as they 
should, and there must be a change. People say I’m clever — some of 
them say ‘ D d clever ;’ but, in my opinion, cleverness does not con- 

sist in making a mess of things and coming to grief. Success is the 
proof of cleverness.” 

He stopped for a time, and nodded at the fire as if to assure it that 
its inspirations were altogether satisfactory to him. 

“Yes, I must put my theories into practice,” he continued. “I’ve 
plenty of them, and they’re all sound. But I wish I hadn’t thrown 
away that £1500. It would have been useful.” 

This self-evident proposition also gave him satisfaction. He rose up 
and poured out another glass of brandy, as a reward for candor and 
logical reflection. Then, as he held the brandy in his hand, half-way to 
his lips, he shook his head, hesitated, and finally poured the brandy back 
into the bottle. He then called Dubley and settled the programme for 
the morrow. 

Reflecting on his scanty supplies he resolved to go without Dubley, 
and turned over in his mind various modes by which he could convey 
his desire without awakening in Dubley a suspicion of the real cause. 


UNUSUAL MORALITY 


99 


“ Dabley,” said he, “ you haven’t had a holiday for a long time. I 
shall be away about a fortnight, and I think I can do without you.” 

“ Indeed, sir !” said Dubley, in amazement. He. had never contem- 
plated the possibility of any circumstances arising in whiph his attend- 
ance could be dispensed with. , 

“ Yes,” said Delfoy, “ I shall take very few things. Go and see your 
friends, Dubley, and be back here by Monday week.” 

“ I should have great pleasure in visiting my friends, sir, if you will 
allow me to say so,” said Dubley, smiling as the unusual horizon of a 
holiday broke upon his view ; “ but I should feel unhappy, sir, if you 
found cause to regret my absence, sir.” 

“ No, no, Dubley,” said Delfoy, moodily, “ take your holiday.” 

The want of the rejected glass of brandy had revived Delfoy’s gloom. 
He frowned and fidgeted as he thought of it. Surely he was weak to 
deny himself so moderate a stimulant at a season of unusual depression. 
Dubley observed the gloom that weighed upon his master, and thought 
he would enliven him with a little more philosophy. He watched for 
an opportunity, and, like a great many other moral philosophers and 
self-constituted teachers of the human race, he was not too nice either 
about the appropriateness of his remark to the occasion or as to the 
necessity for delivering himself, beyond the fact that, having gone 
through the labor of creating sundry grave reflections, he was unable to 
resist their demand for utterance. 

“ Life, sir, is an extraordinary thing, sir,” said Dubley, with his hands 
folded, and looking hard at Geoffrey as if the proposition he set forth 
had been arrived at after much serious thought, as indeed it was the 
result of quite two hours’ meditation. 

“Yes, Dubley, it is,” said his master; “and occasionally a very disa- 
greeable thing — very.” 

“ Yes, sir,” pursued Dubley, with confidence, “ life, sir, is an affair of 
bangles; and what we’ve got to do, sir, is to rub ’em down.” 


Chapter XV 
THE GIRL VICKERS 

“There,” said the girl of the name of Vickers, who marked the de- 
parture of Geoffrey Delfoy, M.P., before stating her business to Mr. 
William Shout — “there’s sixty -two ‘Dear Sirs’ and thirty ‘Dear 
Madams,’ and father says he won’t write no more without the money.” 

“ And he sha’n’t. Miss Laura, as you say. He sha’n’t write no more 
without the money,” said Mr. Shout; with a profound bow, as he ushered 
the girl into the sitting-room. “Your father. Miss Laura — charming 
Miss Laura, shall have his money. He shall have it,” repeated Mr. 
Shout, with decision, as if some one were desirous of preventing the just 
discharge of this special obligation to the paternal Vickers. “ He shall 
have it,” he again repeated, with a varied emphasis, as he looked about 
in drawers and portfolios, searching among books, records, and news- 
papers, among old clothes, on the sofa, and under the tea-tray on the 
table, and among stacks of dusty papers on the mantel-piece, mixed with 
old pipes and a variety of tobacco pots that were never used because 
Mr. Shout said “the exchequer never ran to it.” Shout’s sitting-room 
was a wonderful combination, in any circumstances, but when he was 
busy it was a sort of old clothes warehouse, a second-hand bookshop and 
eating-house and a lawyer’s copying -room, all in one, and that very 
small. 

As he plunged in the drawers and dived under the heaps of papers, 
and searched in the pockets of the old clothes he always brought him- 
self up, with his eye on the girl, and favored her with a wink, or some 
other grimace indicative of appreciation. “ The maiden’s cheek is 
rosy,” thought Mr. Shout, .“ and her lips are ripe for amorous salutation ; 
I must dissemble.” He finally drew himself up, and with his hands in 
his pockets gazed upon the girl as if in deep thought. 

“ What’s yer fake ?” asked the girl, with contempt. 

“ The bill, Laura, the bill.” 

“ There ain’t no bill. It’s twenty-four and six I want, and yer may 
jest as well ’and up.” 

She spoke with a show of disgust at what she conceived to be Mr. 
Shout’s pretence. She was one of those curious productions of our 
^ jnodern civilization and freedom, the London girl, who, at the age of 
sixteen, was quite at home anywhere and in any company, provided it 


THE GIRL VICKERS 


101 


I was neither refined nor modest. She was strong and healthy, and was 
endowed with a natural vigor capable of thriving in a London by-street. 
She wore high-heeled shoes, and stockings that had never been near a 
I darning-needle, a draggled skirt of blue, and a long jacket of imitation 
i astrachan, much worn, and drawn out of shape by its own weight. Her 
1 hair hung down her back in a large plait, evidently three days old, and 
1 on her head was a broad-brimmed hat of faded purple velvet, decorated 
with a spray of roses that had evidently seen a good deal of weather, 
and had quite given up trying to look gay. 

Shout ceased pretending, upon this remonstrance, drew some money 
out of his pocket, and counted out the twenty-four and sixpence. 

“ There, Laura,” said he, “ you won’t lose it.” 

' “Not me!” 

“ And you won’t come and ask for it again, because we don’t pay 
twice in this establishment.” 

“ No fears,” said the girl, gathering up the coin that had purchased a 
substitute for the penmanship of the Earl of Feeldmore, “and father 
says I was to ask if you wanted any more.” 

“No more at present, Laura,” said Shout. “Tell your father his 
Lordship is very much obliged to him, very much obliged.” 

“ All right,” said the girl, and away she went to console her father 
with the twenty-four and sixpence and the compliments of his Lordship, 
which, like the letter-writing, were all done by proxy. 

It was a gloomy day — the beginning of the winter come a little before 
its tirde, with a tendency to fog and consequent darkness. I’he girl made 
her way through Wych Street and Drury Lane to Bow Street in a leis- 
urely, unconcerned manner, but very much on the alert, as is the wont 
of girls bred in the centre of the city, where the life of the young is an 
affair of gibes and jostling, a matter of dodging and warding off, a sort 
of patchwork of squalor and plenty, according as the parental scramble 
for the wherewithal has been fruitful or the reverse. She found her 
way through Covent Garden to Bow Street, where she was gratified by 
seeing the removal of a distinguished prisoner from the police-court to 
the prison van ; and then across Long Acre, where she was excited by 
the exhilarating spectacle of a fire-engine at full gallop, with all the cus- 
tomary accompaniment of shouting and neck-stretching ; and then down 
Endell Street, a nondescript thoroughfare that has been undergoing a 
transformation throughout all time within the memory of living man, 
and seems never to become anything more than a thing of hope and 
promise. Even in these later days it represents a jagged and incon- 
sistent appearance. The first efforts at improvement have grown old 
and discolored, and the latest products of a reforming tendency add to 
the incongruous result. 

On this particular afternoon, when the girl Vickers emerged from 


102 


THE VEILED HAND 


Endell Street into the large irregular area known as Broad Street, that 
spreads itself in various directions towards Oxford Street, the northern 
part of the thoroughfare and its surroundings were characterized by 
numerous alleys, within which were congregated much that was squalid 
and criminal, and many whose ambitions never rose beyond the hope of 
avoiding the penalties of crime and the brutality of domestic correction. 
From these alleys emerged slatternly women or slouching men, accord- 
ing to the hour of the day ; and at odd times throngs of boys, ranging 
from sixteen to one-and-twenty years of age, grouped themselves about 
the pavement — a boisterous, roistering, jostling, and marauding gang, who 
varied the pastime of terrorizing over the passer-by with shouting and 
blaspheming among themselves. 

The purple velvet hat of Laura Vickers became a natural centre of 
attraction to such a gang, disporting itself on the broad pavement in 
front of Bloomsbury Chapel, and the twenty-four and sixpence designed 
to cheer the heart of the paternal Vickers was in danger. One of the fel- 
lows who had been dancing a double shuffle on the pavement, with his 
hands in his pockets, hailed her by the name of “ Mary,” and asked for a 
lock of her hair. Another intercepted her, as she made for the road- 
way, with the exclamation, “ Would yer?” A third embraced her in the 
rear, and the rest were closing around ; when suddenly, on the signal of a 
hoarse and thoroughly discordant imitation of the cry of a mountaineer, 
which resolved itself into the syllables “ Too-ral-y-ity,” the whole gang 
dispersed in the direction of Oxford Street, and in a moment each indi- 
vidual had the appearance of being wholly unconnected with his neigh- 
bor, and bent on a separate errand of no consequence to anybody, for 
while some slouched with their hands in their pockets, others frisked or 
ambled, and others again whistled the latest air of the streets with well- 
simulated abstraction ; but each and all kept well within view of a sta- 
tionary figure of the same breed as themselves on the other side of Ox- 
ford Street, and at the end of one of the streets running northward. 

With similar suddenness to the last signal a cry of “ What cheer, 
Maria!” came down the street, and instantly the whole gang began 
converging to a common point, where a lady and two little girls were 
making their way along the pavement unconscious of the approaching 
horde. The next moment they were surrounded, as the lady cried, 

“ Ethel, keep close I” and a little girl of about seven, with large dark 
eyes and a mass of tangled dark hair, buried her face in her mother’s 
skirts, while on the other side a fair girl, a couple of years older, whom 
the mother called “ Dora,” glared defiance at a foul - smelling rufflan 
who forced his hands in between the mother and child, and with a deft- 
ness and rapidity that announced long practice and proficiency, discov- 
ered the exact position of her purse. Defiance and resistance in such a 
case were idle. The eight vigorous, brutal, and agile young fellows' 


THE GIRL VICKERS 


103 


pressed upon these three weakly ones with a determined purpose, and 
executed their manceuvres with silent persistency. So well were they 
!■ organized that no one in the distance, either up the street or down, could 
have seen that anything was afoot beyond the ordinary evolutions of 
street loafers, for the movements of the three experts in felony were 
completely covered by the simulation of the ordinary loafers’ street antics 
on the part of the others. 

It was a terrible moment for the three timid ones, for though the 
incident occurred in the heart of London, and close to a main thorough- 
\ fare, it was the season when the fewest people are in town and about the 
f streets, and choice of the scene of enterprise was dictated by experience. 

; But while it happens that by -streets leading from main thorough- 
j fares in London are frequently deserted during the day except by an 
I ’occasional passenger, the intervals of desertion are short, and ruffianism 
must be. quick to be successful. The sudden intrusion among the 
roughs, apparently from nowhere, of a gentleman wielding a walking- 
stick like a battle-axe, and with the agility of a harlequin, caused a 
H diversion in favor of the timid ones; and the appearance of other trav- 
ellers upon the horizon, in the neighborhood of Bedford Square, acceler- 
ated a retreat, with the booty, however, consisting of a small purse con- 
taining a £5 note and a few copper coins. 

The sympathetic public, although it w'as quickly on the spot, and 
beat the tardy policeman by quite two minutes and a half, had seen 
nothing of the occurrence but its ending, and was therefore quite una- 
ble to do anything but gape at the three timid ones and the gentle- 
man with a walking-stick going off in a four-wheeled cab to Torrington 
Square. 

Very little occurred on the way home. The children were dumb with 
astonishment at the violence and rapidity of events ; and the embarrass- 
ment of their mother was respected by their protector, so that beyond 
an assurance or two that all was well, and thankful recognition for de- 
liverance, nothing was said. It was not until they were safe in the pres- 
ence of Mrs. Littercan, and climbing up the narrow staircase to the iirst 
floor sitting-room, that the tongues of the little girls were loosed concern- 
ing the marvellous adventure that had befallen them ; and then imagi- 
nation and dreams would fail to match the wild extravagance of their 
description of the brigands who had assaulted them, their fierce looks, 
their rough manners, and their horrid voices; all of which, to the mi- 
nutest detail, they described to their brother Philip with increasing volu- 
bility, and innumerable exclamations of horror and amazement that such 
a thing could happen so near at hand. Philip, who, with silent sym- 
pathy, caressed his mother, and questioned his sisters with grave de- 
liberation, finally asked where was the gentleman with the wonderful 
stick. 


104 


THE VEILED HAND 


This gave rise to quite a revulsion of feeling, and all was excitement 
to know what had become of him, when Mrs. Littercan, being appealed 
to, announced that he went away in the cab, saying he would call next 
day, and left his card. Upon it was inscribed, “ Mr. Morris Heritage.” 


Chapter XVI 

CONCERNING A GREAT DRAGON 

There was a great commotion that night in the back bedroom. The 
incident of the day had taken possession of, the imaginations of the two 
little girls, and in the course of the evening it had been resolved to reduce 
it to pictorial representation. This was decided upon by seven o’clock, 
and by eight they were put to bed, full of great schemes associated 
with a box of colors and six sheets of cartridge-paper; but there were 
differences of opinion as to the mode of treatment. Ethel, aged seven, 
was realistic, and had insisted upon the introduction of “ mummer’s um- 
brella” life size in the preliminary design modelled out with the dolls of 
the establishment, despite the absence of heads, arms, and other append- 
ages. Theodora, commonly know has “ Dora,” aged nine, was imagi- 
* native and dictatorial. She was indeed the dominant spirit, presumed 
on her extra two years, and poor little Ethel, with her large dark eyes 
and magnificent growth of black hair, was always making-suggestions so 
that Dora might trample on them and show how stupid she was. 

“You see, Ethel,” said Dora, under the bedclothes, that the voices 
might not travel, “ you don’t understand anything about it.” 

“Yes,” said Ethel, without raising any objection to so well-established 
a proposition. 

“And you know, Ethel,” continued Dora, the dictator, “we’re not to 
be people at all, but birds. Mummer shall be a duck, and we shall be 
little ducks, just hatched and all fluffy.” 

“And yellow,” assented Ethel. 

“ Why, of course we shall be yellow. They’re always yellow. But I 
don’t think we should be ducks; we should be other birds with colors in 
them. I’ll be a robin, and you should be a greenfinch.” 

“Yes,” said Ethel, to show her desire to conciliate, “and mummer 
should be a goose.” 

“Oh, Ethel, mummer mustn’t be a goose; she’d be offended.” 

“But a goose is bigger, Dora, and mummer must be bigger.” 

“ Then she can be a duck. A duck’s quite big enough, and has blue 
stripes. Now that’s settled, and then there’s the men.” 

“Yes, the men,” echoed Ethel, at great loss to reconcile eight or nine 
street loafers with the duck and robin arrangement, and she said so. 

“ But they’re not to be men !” exclaimed Dora ; “ they’re to be cats 


106 


THE VEILED HAND 


— tomcats ; and one of them is to be a Manx cat — that one, you know, 
with his coat-tails torn off.” 

“ Oh yes, that will be quite right,” said Ethel ; “ but I don’t think 
Manx cats really have no tails. They’re chopped off by the sailors.” 

“ That doesn’t matter,” said Dora. “ We’ll have three tabbies, and a 
white cat with a bushy tail, and the rest may be anything you like.” 

She added this last point in a testy manner, as if she did not want to 
be bothered by the cats any more ; but Ethel was grateful for the con- 
cession, and treasured up the announcement that she was at liberty to 
determine on the color and general character of at least five cats, and re- 
solved there and then that two of them should be engaged in a private 
quarrel of their own, with arched backs and tails erect. 

“And now,” said Dora, with a- sigh, “there’s the gentleman. What a 
bother he is.” 

“ Well, he’s got a stick,” said Ethel, apologetically, “ to drive the cats 
away.” 

“ Really, Ethel, you tax my patience.” This was a quotation from 
“mummer,” and reduced Ethel to submission. “ The gentleman’s not to 
be a people any more than the others. He’s to be a dragon, all red and 
green and blue, and with red-fire breath.” 

“ But with a walking-stick.” 

“ Whoever heard of a dragon with a walking-stick ? No ; the walking- 
stick is to be a flash of lightning.” 

“Forked lightning,” pleaded Ethel. 

“Well, yes, forked lightning,” said Dora, “coming out of a black 
cloud.” 

Then after a pause Dora sighed a prodigious sigh, and said, 

“Dear me, what a trouble it is to arrange a simple little thing like 
that !” 

“Yes,” said Ethel, with a sigh of her own, a little short, modest sigh; 
“ but you know, Dora, you’re so particular.” 

Dora conceded this, but said it was necessary to be particular, or noth- 
ing would ever come right ; and having settled this, they agreed that 
they must coax “ mummer” in the morning not to bother about the geog- 
raphy, but to let them commence the drawing early, so as to get it done 
before the gentleman came in the afternoon. This point was discussed 
at some length, and, having decided that geography was of no use to 
them, as they were not going to be sailors, they went to sleep, and 
dreamed of dragons and tomcats; but the realistic Ethel was much 
hampered in her dream by the presence of innumerable walking-sticks, 
flying about in all directions among the cats and the dragon. 

Mummer was complacent next day, as she always was, and geog- 
raphy was cast to the four winds in favor of the grand allegorical work 
projected under the bedclothes the night before, Dora set to with a 


CONCERNING A GREAT DRAGON 


107 


will, and Ethel assisted by looking on and admiring ; that was lier 
principal part. But spaces for her five cats were duly set out in pencilled 
squares, very much in the background. As a special favor there would 
be a corner reserved in the foreground for the two black ones with 
arched backs and tails erect ; but all other concessions were rigorously 
denied. 

There was no question but that the work was a great one. Ethel was 
in raptures with it, but Philip was sarcastic. He came home from school 
at four o’clock, and protested that the duck was a hen, with its ruffled 
feathers, only he had never seen a blue hen before, and he quite disap- 
proved of the tabby on its hind legs, menacing the duck’s nose with in- 
ordinately long talons. All admitted, however, that the dragon was a 
masterpiece. It was a most ferocious dragon, with a long scaly tail that 
meandered down the whole length of the paper, and would have mean- 
dered twice the distance if Dora had had more paper to work on. She 
was very proud of the tail, but Ethel was strongly impressed with the 
lightning, as she had been allowed to draw one fork while Dora went to 
wash her hands. The end of it all was that the picture was put aside at 
four o’clock, to be touched up later on, and the two artists were marched 
away to have the paint washed off, and be generally made presentable in 
view of the expected visit. 

There was tea provided, with an eighteen -penny cake on the glass 
dish, and the best tea-service was set out, and the plated silver waiter 
was polished up to hand the tea on, and Ethel was to hand it. That was 
all settled according to established usage, for Dora objected to hand 
things, and on this occasion she objected to the interruption altogether, 
and desired to go on with the scales in the dragon’s tail. 

Heritage came exactly at five o’clock, as he had promised, looking very 
spruce, and very different from the fighting, ruffled prototype of the 
dragon of the day before, and evidently very much delighted at the pros- 
pect of making the acquaintance of the family group. He was about 
five or six-and-thirty at this time, and none of the sadness that from 
time to time overshadowed his face was apparent as he shook hands and 
expressed the conventional hope of good health and recovery from the 
shock of the day before. Muriel was very graceful in her manner, and 
smiled her gratitude both for the rescue and the visit; but Philip, who 
had been unusually quiet, standing at the table gravely and silently 
watching Heritage as he drank his tea, suddenly, as the visitor finished, 
stepped out to take his cup, and when he carried it to the table, the boy 
turned round, and standing with his head thrown back, said, in quite a 
formal manner, but with clear enunciation, 

“ I think, sir, I ought to thank you myself for protecting my mother 
and sisters from those rough fellows.” 

This pleased Heritage very much, and he answered that perhaps some 


108 


THE VEILED HAND 


day the boy would have an opportunity of doing a similar service to 1 
some others. ' 

“And I hope,” answered Philip, “I shall be ready enough to do what 
is right.” 

He said it firmly, for he really meant it ; but a tear came tumbling 
down his cheek, although his head was erect and his voice was firm. I 
He was a boy of strong emotions, as well as high courage, and this ex- [ 
pression of thanks had been preying on his mind all day as to how he 
should say it and when ; but say it he knew he must, and he said it well, j 
He struck right home to Heritage’s sympathetic nature, and his mother | 
blushed and trembled, as the incident passed, in a silent passion of love 
and fear and gratitude. 

So the visit passed, and the picture of the dragon was never shown, 
which Ethel thought a shame ; but Dora was superior, with all the vanity 
of a great artist, to anything but the consciousness of achievement, and 
said she thought Mr. Heritage wore very queer-colored trousers. 

This was not the end of the acquaintanceship. Next day Heritage 
called to see Mrs. Littercan, and took the ground-floor rooms, not for 
constant residence, he said, as he lived in the country, but for occasional 
use when he desired to stay a night in town. This gave opportunity for 
conversational inquiry about the widow up-stairs, her habits and antece- 
dents, and Mrs. Littercan’s volubility was sufficiently abundant for all 
purposes. 

Later, Heritage’s City interest was used on behalf of Philip, who was 
very soon installed at the Charterhouse School, and presents of picture- 
books and drawing materials were constantly making their appearance, 
for the dragon had, after all, been exhibited, with many apologies from 
Muriel and much amusement on the part of Heritage. 

And knowledge of these incidents being current in the basement, Mrs. 
Littercan informed her Joe on one of the rare occasions when he was 
not “ down the line,” but smoking his long clay pipe by the kitchen fire, 
that she wouldn’t wonder a bit, but on the contrary would think it more 
than likely as not, and that he was really a Very handsome and fair- 
spoken gentleman, and she couldn’t hope in the natur’ of things to do 
better, but might on the contrary do much wuss, to which Littercan 
w'ould reply briefly but oracularly, 

“ Mebbe.” 


Chapter XVII 
NICE AND OPALS 

The Chipperings were at Nice, the vestibule of Monte Carlo, and the 
temporary domicile of those who like to have an address on the Riviera 
that does not actually comprehend the tables. Mr. Chippering disported 
himself in a broad-brimmed straw -hat and white trousers, walked the 
gardens, smiling as if he were still receiving customers, and handed his 
daughter a chair with all the grace of former days, when handing chairs 
was the first duty of life, and the sure prelude, if done with finish, to 
making sales. 

Amy Chippering, a mass of colors in violent contrast, all ends and 
pleats and varied extravagances, accompanied her father, but Mrs. Chip- 
pering remained at home. The business of fashionable life was becoming 
a terror to her, and she sighed for the little back parlor behind Alfred’s 
first shop, when he sold a row of pins with pleasure, and regarded cold 
mutton and pickles as a banquet. “ Ma,” in the opinion of Amy, was 
Ma’s own opinion about herself was that she did not want to 

be worried. 

The father and daughter got on very well together. Both were ex- 
amples of the value of conceit and self-complacency in relation to the 
acquisition of pleasure. The father was contented in his success, by 
virtue of his egotism ; the daughter found enjoyment through her igno- 
rance. The sensations which cause pleasure, regarded as mechanical 
agents, are as complete in the case of the vain, misguided, and absolutely 
vulgar woman, laughed at and contemned on all sides, as in the most 
refined and sensitive natures. The difference lies in the fact that the 
grosser nature gets her gratifications more abundantly and cheaper than 
the mo^ refined, whose field is necessarily more restricted. 

The daughter flirted her parasol and smiled her sickly smile, inanely 
satisfied that she was perfectly lovely in feature as in toilet. The father 
put the ankle of one leg on the knee of the other, threw his coat back with 
a waggish air, and smoked a cheroot as he leaned back in his chair the 
picture of rakish indifference to the serious affairs of life, such as bro- 
cades and Welsh flannel. His daughter looked upon him with admira- 
tion for a moment, but only for a moment. The smile turned to a frown, 
and in pettish tones she exclaimed, 

“ Oh ! pa, I wish you wouldn’t.” 


110 


THE VEILED HAND 


“Wouldn’t what, my dear?” inquired the amiable parent. 

“ Why, that hat — it’s horrible !” 

“ Oh dear, no,” responded Mr. Chippering ; “ a little eccentric perhaps, 
but not horrible. The British legislator is permitted a little eccentricity;” 
and accordingly the British legislator hugged his leg a little higher and 
smohed with increased determination to be comfortable. 

“It’s not la mode!" exclaimed Amy, very much annoyed, and turned 
her eyes in the direction of the crowd that passed to and fro between 
the sitters and the band. Suddenly, and with scarcely a moment’s inter- 
lude, she exclaimed, far louder than was consistent with the manners of 
a young lady who had views about la mode, “ Oh ! pa, look !” 

Pa looked, but could see nothing extraordinary either to delight or 
alarm. The people marched to and fro in cheerfulness and in gloom, as 
a pleasure, as a duty, as a novelty, as the victims of boredom, and the 
very embodiment of ennui. The child of misfortune in a back alley 
playing with half a brick and three oyster-shells in a puddle in its filthy 
court gets pleasure in abundance. The brilliant sunshine, the teeming 
garden, the atmosphere of repose, and the excellent music were not, all 
put together, a patch upon the half a brick and three oyster- shells to 
many who promenaded that day in the gardens of Nice. 

“ What am I to look at, my dear?” asked Mr. Chippering, bringing 
down his leg, as & natural result of excitement provoked by his daughter’s 
exclamation. 

“ I’m sure it’s him !” exclaimed Miss Chippering. “ I see the back of 
his head, pa — oh !” 

Miss Chippering rose from her seat with excitement, and her father, 
remembering that he was a British legislator, rebuked her impetuosity, 
to which she responded with bated breath: 

“ Oh, pa, it’s the colonel ; I’m sure it is. Do go and bring him here.” 

“ The colonel ” it was, but he was much occupied. His purpose in 
coming to Nice was quite well defined, and he was on the eve of carrying 
it into effect, for he had seen the Chipperings in the distance, when his 
attention was arrested by a woman of marvellous beauty sitting in what 
appeared to be a family circle. 

She must be French, he thought, from her dress and her surroundings. 
The stout old gentleman with the large blue tie and white umbrella was 
unquestionably French, so was the middle-aged lady with the alpaca shoes 
sitting next her, also the young man with the flat-brimmed hat, and the 
man with the Legion of Honor ribbon, all French ; yet her oval face and 
calm reserve reminded him of Muriel, and he wondered whether it could 
possibly have come to pass that she had found a way of her own apart 
from him that was not a desolate way ; and he was jealous that one 
whom he had neglected and passed by was possibly happy, and that others 
found pleasure in a presence from which he was excluded by his own act. 


NICE AND OPALS 


111 


It was clear the old passion was not dead, but that less noble aspira- 
tions had overwhelmed it. He was arrested in the commission of an act 
of sacrilege by the vision of a veritable Madonna, and it angered him. 
The appearance of this possible Muriel in his path awakened all the la- 
tent superstition in his soul, and nothing would serve him but that he 
must be satisfied whether this paragon was Muriel or not. 

He was in the act of moving off to the near neighborhood of the 
family party when a hand was laid on his arm, and he turned to face the 
haberdasher and the father of an heiress. The Madonna faded from his 
view ; he gulped down his superstition ; he appeared to move with alac- 
rity to the side of Miss Amy Chippering, and in five minutes he was 
smoking one of Mr. Chippering’s cheroots and flirting with his daughter. 

Miss Chippering’s volubility was boundless. She was so glad the colo- 
nel had arrived — “ turned up ” she said ; it was so nice to meet with a 
friend ; she hoped he was not going away soon, and would persuade pa 
to take her to Monte Carlo ; to all of which the colonel responded by 
monosyllabic commonplaces and sedulous smoking. Then she began 
upon the Unusual Morality Association, as the colonel knew she would in 
course of time, and asked how the subscriptions were coming in. The 
colonel smiled and nodded and smoked. He even approached a wink of 
familiar confidence that sent a spasm of delirious joy through the nerves 
of the excitable Amy, as he put his hand in the breast-pocket of his coat 
and drew forth a letter. It was from the secretary, and was in the form of 
a certificate of the fact that Colonel Delfoy’s promise had been fulfilled. 

“You will be able. Miss Chippering, to certify to your father that I 
have won my bet,” said the colonel, handing her the paper. 

“Do you hear, pa?”- she exclaimed. “The colonel’s won his bet. 
You’ve got to pay, pa. Oh, what fun !” and the frolicsome maiden flour- 
ished the paper before her father’s eyes, and laughed again and again. 

The haberdasher was more circumspect. He said nothing ; but having 
read the paper, drew forth his pocket-book and counted out the notes. 
They were all of the Bank of France, and as he handed them to Delfoy, 
he said, 

“You are welcome, Delfoy. They’re my winnings over yonder, and if 
you didn’t take them, perhaps the tables would.” 

The way in which the notes were passed, and the cool, methodical 
manner in which Delfoy put them up in his pocket-book — the cold- 
blooded, imperturbable aspect he presented throughout the transaction, 
sobered the volatile Amy. She listened with concern as Delfoy, having 
put the notes away, took his cigar from his mouth, and said, deliberately, 

“The tables may, in the ordinary course of events, get the notes still; 
but suppose we take an extraordinary course. Would you object, Mr. 
Chippering, to my making a present of jewelry to Miss Chippering?” 

“ Not at all,” said the haberdasher. 


112 


THE VEILED HAND 


“Just as a memento,” continued the colonel— “a little memento of a 
very pleasing family incident,” he added, with studied deliberation ; and 
then, facing round, he asked, with a smile, “ Now, how long would it 
take you. Miss Chippering, to choose a few trifles? A quarter of an 
hour? Say twenty minutes; that will just give your father time to get 
through his cigar. Pray give me the honor of your company.” 

He rose and bowed, and with a considerable amount of trepidation, 
and all the vivacity — real and affected — clean swept from her manner, 
she walked away with the colonel as if in a dream. 

It took less than twenty minutes. The colonel seemed to know all 
about the contents of the jeweller’s shop. He could scarcely have known 
more, so far as his special wants were concerned, if he had served in it 
for a twelvemonth. He had evidently made a preliminary inspection 
and given an order. They selected a ring of opals, all egg-shaped, set 
lengthwise round a large hoop, and at the point where the opals touched 
three diamonds were set on each side. It was a very rich-looking ring, 
and pleased the lady immensely ; but there was more. The colonel chose 
a tiara, not very large, but in excellent taste, and this also provoked a 
passion of joyful exclamation ; but there was still more — a plain gold ring 
to fit the third finger of the left hand ; and on the colonel fitting it on, 
the coy young thing exclaimed, • 

“ Oh, colonel, do you really mean it?” 

And when the colonel said he did, the shopman having meantime 
buried his head in a closet to avoid his natural embarrassment. Miss 
Amy Chippering exclaimed, with fervor and delight, 

“ Oh, colonel, how romantic !” 


Chapter XVIII 


THE REST OF THE NOTES 

The temptation to take the balance of the £1000 to Monte Carlo and 
play at least one maximum was more than flesh and blood, in the per- 
son of Geoffrey Delfoy, could resist. He went by the next train, but 
although quite confident he was going to win, he took a return ticket, 
and left £100 in his portmanteau to provide against accidents. This is 
a way they have who allow their imagination to run riot on the turn up 
of the cards and the twirl of the roulette wheel. Whatever disaster 
may have befallen them in the past, they feel perfectly certain that in 
this particular instance they are to be on the right side, and then the 
doubt comes — a staggering effort of the little caution that is left in 
them — a mere shimmer of the light of reason, and then away they go 
headlong and headstrong to toy with Fortune. 

He did not go straight to the Casino on arriving, but took a turn in 
the gardens to settle in his mind what he would do, so he told himself, 
as if it mattered what he did or how he did it. He sat on a seat among 
the palms and smoked a cigarette, to cool himself, so he said as he 
mused, and watched the goldfish in the running pools, and wondered 
whether the nurse-girls witlWAhe babies in the perambulators taking the 
air were part of the system, and whether the babies were hired by the 
company to give the place that air of innocence usually attributed to it; 

' and asked himself why London was not as clean and bright, and as free 
i of beggars and poverty, and why in London people could not sit in 
■ gardens and smoke, and watch the goldfish and the babies, and see 
' Punch and Judy or attend a concert gratis; whether, in fact, if there 
I were a great Casino in Leicester Square, say, London would be freed of 
! poverty and vice and dirt, and be made beautiful with luxuriant gardens 
i and free entertainments of the first order; and having concluded that 
the subject was worth thinking about, he went into the Casino, put a 
maximum on the red, and won. 

In ordinary circumstances he would have let the original stake remain 
on the red, but in this case he took up his winnings and waited. Black 
won next, upon which he left the table for a seat at the side to think it 
over ; and the players who had been there all day losing with great 
assiduity remarked upon his proceedings with amazement. A man who 
could walk in casually, stake and win a maximum, and retire without 


8 


114 


THE VEILED HAND 


risking the loss of it was a phenomenon. They regarded him not 
merely with envy but animosity. 

Delfoy, in the mean time, was thinking over the incident, in conjunc- 
tion with the opals of the morning and the strange apparition in the 
gardens. He was gloomy. This new leaf he was turning over,^or 
about to turn over, was not a bright and shining page, and his winning 
so readily was something of a shock to him. If the opal ring business 
was to be followed up a little capital would be necessary. It would 
be absurd to risk a loss. He would leave trente et quarante and 
amuse himself for an hour with roulette. The loss of a hundred would 
not matter. He would try zero at every table in the room until zero 
turned up at. each, and this would occupy all the time he had at his dis- 
posal. It would amuse him, and could not in any event be too costly. 
The notion accorded with his lugubrious humor, and did not rob him 
of the gratification of gambling. 

The tables were pretty full. Every seat was occupied, and in some 
cases two deep stood behind the sitters. It was just past five in the 
afternoon, and no one in the rooms as yet thought of dinner. Delfoy 
proceeded in a methodical manner. He was bent on satisfying what 
may be described as his gambling conscience by using up the time, but 
he did not want to use it too fast in case luck went against him. 

He cast his eye round the table, and remarked an old lady with a 
paper and pencil before her recording the numbers that turned up, and 
finding by her record that zero had not appeared for twenty coups, he 
commenced by putting a louis on zero. “ Vingt, noir P' cried the 
croupier, and away went Delfoy’s louis. He played another and an- 
other and another, up to twelve, and got his reward : thirty-five louis for 
twelve. He said it was slow work, and went off to the next table. 
There he saw two men quarrelling over the proper move to make, and 
two lovers putting five-franc pieces on the number corresponding with 
the age of the young lady, with melancholy consequences. Zero had 
been up somewhat recently, so Delfoy took a pass on the red, and fell 
on a series which excited him somewhat on his reflecting that they had 
been single louis only. He noticed a man rush wildly in, throw a louis 
on the table, shouting “ quinze'^ and hurry off in great haste as soon 
as he had lost it, as if he- had come all the way from Fenchurch 
Street to stake on and wanted to get back as soon as 

possible. Then a melancholy man came along and put ten separate 
louis on ten separate numbers, and did it four times over, losing the 
sum total. Then Delfoy began on zero, and won the first time, which 
made the melancholy man turn deadly pale. Delfoy left his louis on, 
and won a second time. He was suffering sore temptation by these 
successes. It seemed as if he could do no wrong. He curled his lip 
and sighed and moved away to the next table. Ilis purpose was to go 


THE REST OF THE NOTES 


115 


through them all on zero. It was his whim, his inspiration, and, fort- 
unately for him, his superstition was in his favor, and kept him to his 
purpose. 

He went the round with varying success. He lost at only one table, 
where zero was coy and was wooed forty times in vain. At the close 
of his round, when he had to think of his train and the business of the 
opals, he found his winnings exceeded the cost of the jewelry, and thus 
he had more than the £1000 in hand. He would have one look at the 
trente et quarante not that at which he had played, but at the 

other. He was in the act of putting a couple of louis on the red, sim- 
ply because he must do something, when his eye was transfixed by the 
sight of a worn and haggard face on the other side of the table, old and 
wrinkled before its time, and its owner apparently in the very last stage 
of physical and mental exhaustion. It was his father. 

Geoffrey drew back his louis and watched. The father was playing 
in thousand-franc notes, and was losing with a persistency that was ap- 
palling. He was playing on the theory that the cards should run in 
series of three ; and occasionally they did do so, but they always made 
a change when ho played, and came in series when^he did not. A fat 
man with a bald head next Geoffrey, as he watched, said it was a wob- 
bley day, but he was a humorist and a trifler. Geoffrey was serious, 
and orrew more so as he saw his father’s last note on the table raked in, 
and the trembling hand go slowly to the breast-pocket for another 
packet. . - 

He went round the table and tapped his father on the shoulder. 
There was a guilty start and a look of horror on the face of the father 
as he met* the gaze of his son ; he gathered up the notes he had pro- 
duced, and with a trembling nether lip came out of the circle. As 
Geoffrey led him away he said harshly, 

“ You’ve had enough of this, I should say. You’d better come with 
me to Nice. The train starts in ten minutes.” 

“Why Nice, Geoffrey ?” 

“ Because I’m going there, and I want you.” 

“ But I must get my things.” 

“No, they can follow you. The railway porter can take your mes- 
sage. Come.” 

They travelled in a compartment alone, and when well on the way 
Geoffrey, who throughout assumed an air of command, asked, 

“How long have you been here?” 

“ A week.” 

“And how much have you lost?” 

“ Everything except this 20,000 francs — everything. I’ve had very 
bad luck.” 

“ And where did you get the money from to lose ?” 


116 


• THE VEILED HAND 


There was a furtive look from the half-closed eyes, a trembling of 
the lower lip, and no answer. • 

“ I understand,” said Geoffrey ; “ that’s the last of everything^ 

The father made a gesture of assent. His wretchedness prevented 
speech, and his penitence was abject. After a brief silence, during 
which he regarded his father with the eye of a connoisseur in misery, 
Geoffrey said, 

“ Well, cheer up and pull yourself together. I want to introduce 
you this evening to my intended spouse.” 

“ What !” exclaimed the father in alarm, his losses forgotten, his im- 
potence for all purposes of control unregarded. “ Why have you not 
mentioned this before ?” 

“ Only thought of it this afternoon.” 

“Who is she?” 

“ Her name is Chippering. She’s not a beauty, but a quarter of a 
million goes with her.” 

“ Thank God !” exclaimed George Adolphus Leuchars Delfoy, and 
there is every reason to suppose that this pious exclamation came from 
his heart. 


Chapter XIX 


FOR VALUE RECEIVED 

The house of Delfoy was in a desperate hurry to ally itself with the 
house of Chippering, but made a great pretence of showing that it re- 
garded the alliance as a condescension. The devout exclamation uttered 
by Delfoy the elder in a paroxysm of regret and chagrin at his losses, 
and of thankfulness at the hope of a release, was somewhat modified 
the next morning at the prospect of association with a haberdasher, and 
a parvenu pure and simple. Geoffrey, with that discretion which char- 
acterized the management of his serious purposes, had during the even- 
ing referred to his proposed bride only as the daughter of a member of 
Parliament, and dowered with a quarter of a million ; and the prospect 
of rehabilitation was particularly agreeable to his father on such terms. 
He would not, of course, for a moment allow that the family name was 
dear at the price ; but being conscious of his necessities, he felt that a 
sacrifice was justifiable. 

When, however, next day he had become familiar with the prospect 
of rehabilitation, and had revived his spirits by recalling the Conqueror, 
and forgetting all about mortgages and trente et quarante^ he felt that 
the Chippering interest valued itself impertinently high ; and when, 
following this revival of a somewhat besmirched and decaying self- 
esteem, he dug out from the parliamentary records the appalling fact 
that Chippering was a haberdasher, he thought of Lady Grace, and ex- 
perienced a strange sinking in the abdominal region, together with a 
decided weakness in the action of the heart. 

He had just reached this stage of his reflections when he heard 
Geoffrey calling to him to know whether he was ready ; that is to say, 
ready to go into the gardens and face the dreadful truth. 

“Wait a minute, Geoffrey — just a minute,” said his father, who, 
despite the terrible misgivings his discovery had awakened, was still 
deficient in the bravery necessary to join his son. “ I think, you know,-” 
he added, “we should just talk this matter over a little — just a little.” 

“ Well,” said Geoffrey, in that tone which indicates compliance as a 
matter of courtesy, without any intention whatever of assenting gener- 
ally. 

Then the elder took the younger by the arm, and clutched it as he 
whispered near his ear. 


THE VEILED -ilAND " 

“ What will your mother say ?” 

Whereupon Geoffrey scratched behind the other ear, and nodding his , 
head, said, 

“ Aye !— yes— well !” with much deliberation ; and added, “ you see, a 
quarter of a million down, with at least as much more to come, is a very 
respectable figure. I don’t think my mother’s side of the house can 
say much on the subject of finance — eh ?” 

“ Quite right, Geoffrey, quite right,” said his father. “ Then you 
think you will make it all right with your mother — eh ?” 

“ Matters can’t be made worse than they are, can they 

Delfoy the elder heaved a deep sigh, looking .on the ground, and 
making imaginary marks with his stick. Then he looked up again, and 
said, in a low tone, 

“ We’d better get it over as soon as possible — eh?” 

“ Certainly,” said Geoffrey. “ I’m not desperately eager on personal 
grounds to make haste, but I don’t think we should delay.” 

“ No,” said his father, as they moved off, “ we shouldn’t delay.” 

And they went forth to face the world — and Lady Grace. 

Geoffrey led his father to the gardens in hopes of the chance meet- 
ing which experience assured him would occur; for lovers in all ages, 
in all climes, and of all classes are controlled by their imaginations to a 
degree and with a certainty of fulfilment that is never approached even 
among the most imaginative people on earth, not even the speculators . 
and gamblers. 

Lovers have an advantage over all other speculators ; they have noth- 
ing to do with mathematics or economies, and have to construe only a 
like nature in a like condition to their own. It would be ridiculous to 
suppose that the enthusiastic Amy would not bring the British legisla- 
tor to the gardens where rained opals and tiaras ; and having regard to 
the probable realization of her hopes, she insisted that his costume 
should be more becoming. The white trousers w'ere brought down to 
lavender — the instincts of the draper refused to condescend further — 
and the straw hat was replaced by a felt, in form and color accepted by 
the multitude. And these are the influences that control the British 
legislator at those periods of his career when he should be allowed, in 
common with the acknowledged genius and the undoubted aristocrat, 
to revel in the freedom of an unusual costume. Amy Chippering, how- 
ever, did not think so. 

It was a beautiful day. The sun shone brilliantly, and the band 
played its best. The promenaders did their utmost to enjoy them- 
selves. Sufferers from dyspepsia and chagrin, the melancholy through 
disappointed passion, and the failures in ambition of all types and gra- 
dations made their way through the cheery throng, who had no troubles 
because they had no aspirations beyond bread-and-butter and warmth. 


FOR VALUE RECEIVED 


119 


And there was Amy Chippering by the side of the British legislator, 
wearing more colors and more ends than ever she had done before, and 
flushed with hope and gratification, but desperately grieved because she 
had to cover up the opal ring with a glove. 

The Delfoys, father and son, went the round, and in their languid 
walk they passed in front of the Madonna of the day before. Geoffrey 
let his father pass on while he assured himself the stranger was not 
Muriel ; and yet how like, and, although merely a likeness of the rare 
original, how immeasurably superior to what he was going to. It was 
not Muriel ; that was impossible. She turned and looked full at him, 
and turned away with placid indifference, not even annoyed, and as if 
she were accustomed to adoration from the passer-by — a queen among 
women, whose aspect chilled the common passions of the man, and made 
him worship the very form and outline, as of something not of flesh and 
blood. He heaved a sigh and passed on. Within twenty paces he 
found the bag of gold he was in search of, and introduced his father. 

The introduction was an ordeal. The embarrassment on the Chipper- 
ing side, however, was tempered by gratification; and while Geoffrey 
went through the business with the air of a man who was changing a 
large check, his father looked very like one who was eating olives for 
the first time in his life, and trying not to let it be supposed he did not 
like them. Amy informed Geoffrey that she was literally entranced at 
his bringing his father-r— it was so considerate of him, and so necessary ! 
She took everything for granted, and made no more doubt about the 
realization of her hopes than that the sun was shining. Accordingly, 
when Geoffrey proposed they should all dine together at the Reserve, 
she converted the invitation into a command, and named the time her- 
self. 

The conversation otherwise was not exciting. Mr. Delfoy told Mr. 
Chippering that he had been informed that Mr. Chippering was in the 
House. Mr. Chippering admitted that the information had a basis in 
fact, and remarked that he had been informed that Mr. Delfoy had sat 
there for some time. This having also been conceded as being capable 
of proof, they agreed that the.House was not what it was, a self-evident 
proposition based on the knowledge that the House is continually chang- 
ing, but which, nevertheless, was remarked upon as an entirely novel 
view of the political position, and one which they seemed to regard 
with much complacency. The subject being exhausted, they disposed 
of the weather, the season, the band, and the general prospects of the 
British empire to their mutual satisfaction. 

It was in a spirit of whimsicality that Geoffrey proposed a dinner at 
the Reserve. He took an intense delight in reflecting upon the realiza- 
tion of the programme sketched in the conversation with his father when 
the project of a marriage was first broached ; and the enacting of the 


120 


THE VEILED HAND 


first step in that programme on the very same balcony was to him the 
perfection of a conceit. The airs and graces of the delighted Amy w'ere 
strangely under control. The presence of the parent Delfoy awed her, 
and she was very much impressed with the evident embarrassment of 
the usually nonchalant Chippering in the presence of so much dignity 
and family pride. She hoped it wouldn’t be always like that. They 
little imagined, however, the terrible sufferings then being endured by 
the head of the family. Lady Grace was constantly before him, nod- 
ding at him in his wineglass, menacing him from behind the chastened 
Amy, and standing bolt upright between him and the haberdasher when- 
ever the Brummagem legislator approached garrulity or assumed a spe- 
cial confidence in his own importance. These were, indeed, moments of 
aflfliction. 

After the dinner Geoffrey confided to his father that he had seen the 
consul, and that he could be married in a week. The father recipro- 
cated by confiding to Geoffrey that he thought a trip to Algiers would 
do him good, and that he would like to start in the morning, and write 
a note to Lady Grace headed “ Africa” on the very day of the marriage, 
a proposition that made Geoffrey smile ; but he assented on condition 
that his father paid a formal visit to the Chipperings before departure, 
and expressed the urgent necessity he was under to make the journey. 

The week was passed by Geoffrey with the diligence of a novice and 
the resolution of a martyr, but he had the certainty of a golden prospect 
if not a golden crown to buoy him up. The haberdasher was incapable 
of reticence in a matter which illustrated his prodigious wealth, and the 
expected quarter of a million was often on his tongue. He was not so 
guileless as to imagine that Amy’s charms had captivated the heir of 
the Delfoys, and he took it rather as a compliment than otherwise that 
he was able to buy an alliance with so illustrious a family. 

On the seventh day the knot was tied, and being lied at the consul’s 
there was just sufficient of the surreptitious about the transaction to jus- 
tify in the mind of the bride the absence of bridesmaids, and to suggest 
the notion that she was eloping. After the marriage formula the haber- 
dasher presented his daughter with a note addressed “ Mrs. Geoffrey Del- 
foy,” in a strange handwriting. It was from Robez, the great London 
banker, informing her that they had the scrip of £250,000 in the 3 per 
cents at her command, and the confiding girl banded it to Geoffrey, 
with artless gayety, as a wedding present. 

“ Ah !” said Geoffrey, putting the letter in bis pocket. “ D nice 

of you, Chippering, d nice.” 

And Chippering responded, flourishing his hand in the air, 

“ Don’t mention it, my dear boy — a trifle. I always meant it, and it 
gives me pleasure.” 

With this he strutted round the room, lifting an ornament here and a 


FOR VALUE RECEIVED 


121 


book there, appraising them, and passing on in the mood of a commer- 
cial Alexander ready to buy an empire or any other trifling commodity 
that fate might place within the compass of his aspiring bid. 

Later in the day Geoffrey Delfoy wrote a note to “ Dear Shout,” en- 
closing to him an order for his £100, and saying, 

“ It’s been of great use to me, my dear fellow. It has yielded me 
exactly 251,000 per cent.; and when you have succeeded in losing your 
little capital by that interesting travelling company you are taking, out, I 
shall probably be able to start you in another spec.” 

The Lady Grace read the dreadful news in the Morning Fostj and was 
too angry to faint. 




Chapter XX 

THE GROUND-FLOOR LODGER 

The modern hermit does not live in a cave, but secludes himself as 
effectually as any of his antique prototypes in the midst of the crowded 
city. His methods are not dissimilar from those of the anchorite, ex- 
cept that he does not live on roots nor keep a goat, but is as a rule par- 
ticular about his cuisine, and sometimes drives a brougham. He lives 
in chambers accessible to no one but himself and his servant, and the 
tendency of his mind is to regard all others with whom in the ordinary 
avocations of life he may come across as so many blocks of stone, or as 
trees, or rivulets, convenient assistants to be used or obstructions to be 
removed. Here and there you meet with one of their order in a club, a 
place designed for social intercourse and the cultivation of good-fellow- 
ship, but used by the modern hermit as a place of security against in- 
trusion, where he may sit and brood in silence, and avoid communion with 
his fellow-men ; for his fellows come to regard him as a table or chair, and 
he them as moving atoms to be avoided, but not otherwise interesting. 

Morris Heritage was fast becoming one of these. A vein of melan- 
choly had struck deep root within his nature, and was pushing its fibres 
into every crevice of the working brain. 

The affair of the shooting-lodge had taken too deep a hold of his sen- 
sitive constitution, and bade fair to waste a life of precious promise. 
With wealth suflScient to command the fullest leisure, and a capacity to 
appreciate every mental luxury that leisure can realize, he was gradually 
allowing himself to move in a narrow groove of city life from an exag- 
gerated sense of obligation to those among whom he had been thrown 
as chief ; for, contrary to the more general feeling, he, as a capitalist, 
was continually reciting to himself the obligation to his subordinates 
imposed upon him by his strength and their weakness. He was indeed 
a veritable slave to the sentiment of personal obligations. 

Thus he was in town during the season of sport and pastime. Thus 
he had been walking gloomily down Oxford Street when men of his 
means were indulging a luxurious indolence at one or other of the thousand 
and one places where men acquire a renewal of vigor or contract typhoid, 
as the case may be. Thus had he chanced to come to the rescue of 
Muriel and her children, and thus had he come to be Mrs. Littercan’s 
ground-fioor lodger with intent. 


THE GROUND-FLOOR LODGER . 


123 


After months of cautious observation, chiefly arising from timidity 
and a wholly gracious fear of intrusion, otherwise colloquially described 
as “ treading on corns,” he came to a resolution, and arriving at his 
rooms one evening about half-past nine, he rang the bell for Mrs. Litter- 
can. 

By some gradual and unpremeditated process the ground-floor rooms 
had been practically refurnished. Two easy-chairs, and a couch that 
was not inconsistent with comfort, had displaced the severe structures of 
the Littercan economy. Heritage reposed on one of them, and asked 
for a cup of tea. 

Mrs. Littercan brought it herself, and presumed her ground-floor lodg- 
er was going “ to stay the night.” He thought he was, but was uncer- 
tain, and asked, 

“ Is Mrs. Lucas at home ?” 

“ She is,” said Mrs. Littercan, impressively. 

“ Have the children gone to bed ?” 

“Yes, sir, they have,” said Mrs. Littercan, catching her breath and 
clasping her hands with emotion. 

“Then,” added Heritage, “will you ask Mrs. Lucas whether I may 
come up to see her in a quarter of an hour ?” 

“ I will indeed, sir,” said Mrs. Littercan, and hurried from the room 
with so much trepidation that she nearly upset Littercan coming from 
up-stairs with four window-blinds needing renewal. 

Littercan was a square-built man, with a square forehead and red hair. 
He had colorless, expressionless eyes, and a mouth that exhibited both 
in appearance and speech contempt of the world in all its phases. To 
some he was a disappointed man, to others morose, to others, again, he 
was a contemptuous, argumentative, denouncing opponent 5 but at home 
he was a docile beast of burden, a fetcher and carrier, a doer of odd jobs 
saved up for him during his absence “ down the line ” by ’Tilder ; a quiet, 
enduring, uncomplaining, domesticated person, who looked for nothing 
in this world or in the next but his victuals at meal-times and his long 
clay pipe after meals. 

“ Gently, ’Tilder. What’s the row now, ’Tilder ?” 

“Oh, Littercan, I’m in such a fluster. But, oh, get away, there s a 
good man, and I’ll tell you by-and-by.” 

“ Oh,” said Littercan, “ she’ll tell me by-and-by. That’s a comfort to 
a sufferin’ cove that ’as ’ad ’is corns trod on by the heaviest female outside 
of a show.” 

And Littercan went down-stairs to mend the blinds, while Mrs. Litter- 
can suppressed her agitation and waited on her first-floor lodger with the 
tremendous message. 

She found Muriel sewing, with a book beside her, from which she read 
at times, between her work, quite happily, and to all appearances without ' 


124 


THE VEILED HAND 


a single regret or any sign of weariness, as with a pensive smile she sewed 3 
and read and sewed again, thinking only of her Philip making rare prog- 
ress at his grand new school, of Theodora, w’ith her dash and courage, ’ 
and of little Ethel, all devotion and submission to her masterful sister; ; 
and in her love for them she was happy. And being able to satisfy their 
wants by means of that strange old lady’s legacy, she had no wants her- 
self, and sat on working and reading, the very embodiment of gratified 
maternal hope ; and hoping on. 

Mrs. Littercan had quieted her perturbed soul for the moment, but no 
sooner had she opened the door to enter on her mission, and deliver the 
most simple message that had ever been committed to her charge, than 
she straightway exclaimed, “ Oh, Mrs. Lucas !” and was unable to utter 
another syllable. 

“Dear me, Mrs. Littercan, what’s the matter?” asked Muriel, look- 
ing up. 

“ Nothing, mum ; I only just jolted ag’inst Littercan coming up the 
stairs ; but, please, Mr. Heritage is come in, and he wants to know whether 
he can come up to see you in a quarter of an hour — about something very 
particular.” 

The “ something very particular ” at the end of the sentence was added 
by the old lady on her own account, as, with a large smile on her red 
face, she rubbed her hands one over the other and waited for the answer. 

Muriel stuck her needle in the damask table-cloth, and pulled it out 
again thoughtfully, as she answered that she would be very pleased to see 
Mr. Heritage; and Mrs. Littercan said, “ Yes’m,” and smiled and nodded, 
and went out of the room sideways, with her eye on her lodger, as if she 
expected to be the recipient of some special confidences. 

Muriel, however, said nothing, but as soon as her landlady had left her 
she fell into a fit of abstraction, resumed the pricking of the table-cloth, 
and inquired of herself what that “very particular” thing could be that 
Mr. Heritage wanted to see her about ; and failing to discover any rea- 
sonable pretext within her knowledge, she hoped it was something to do 
with Philip and Philip’s future, and then went on sewing and smiling, 
with this precious hope growing more real and more glorious in its col- 
oring with each stroke of the needle ; and she thought how good it was 
of Mr. Heritage to take so much interest in her boy. 

The imagined future of Philip had reached magnificent proportions by 
the time Heritage paid his visit, and there was just a shade of disappoint- 
ment upon Muriel’s face when, after making a few complimentary in- 
quiries, he said, 

“ Mrs. Lucas, I am in a position of extreme perplexity, and have come 
to you for your advice, and perhaps your assistance.” 

So it was not Philip and Philip’s future, after all, but some selfish pur- 
pose of his own on account of which he sought the interview. Still, he 


THE GROUND-FLOOR LODGER 


125 


had been very good to them, and had opened up to Philip a prospect 
that she had never dared to dream of until he had actually accomplished 
the first steps and showed the paths to which it led. She would help him 
for Philip’s sake, but she simply answered, 

“Yes, I shall be very happy if I can do anything to aid you.” 

“ Pm glad of that. It’s half my difficulty removed, but I must explain.” 

With this he drew a chair within the circle of the fire, and nearer to 
Muriel, who listened with awakening interest and a growing sympathy 
as he said, 

“ My uncle, Mrs. Lucas, was a banker of great w^ealth and high repute, 
the controller of great enterprises, and the monitor of the most prosper- 
ous merchants of the City. I am the son of his only sister. I inherited 
his wealth and his responsibilities, and although I have innumerable ac- 
quaintances I have not a single relation, and do not feel that I have a friend 
in the world. I am indeed absolutely alone. My wealth makes me sus- 
picious, and I fear I am prone to suspect my fellows of unworthy mo- 
tives, and sometimes most unjustly. I fear, indeed, I have been becom- 
ing during the last ten years not merely misanthropical but hopelessly 
incredulous of the existence of a disinterested, truly self-denying nature. 
The Christian religion has to me no practical examples in common life. 
Its acknowledged heads and pseudo prototypes are the embodiments of 
arrogance, and in too many instances of avarice and cunning. Many of 
our clergy, conforming and non-conforming, rival the Egyptian priest- 
hood in the despotism with which they rule their devotees; and in poli- 
tics, as in religion, a benevolent patriotism is found only among the very 
few. The whole gamut of political impulse may be strung on the one 
note— self; and, while supreme devotion to a cause is seen only among 
fanatics, a generous and modest sacrifice of self to the good of one’s less 
fortunate fellows is so rare that when it is observed it is frequently re- 
marked upon with alarm and as subversive of the foundations of society.” 

He had declaimed this extraordinary confession of faith, or rather want 
of faith in humanity, with passionate eloquence; and as he ceased and 
looked up he remarked an expression of amazed admiration on his solitary 
auditor’s countenance. He smiled as he added, 

“ This is a strange declaration, Mrs. Lucas, from a comparative stranger, 
is it not ? But it is necessary I should say this much for you clearly to 
understand what is to follow. These feelings have preyed upon me. The 
apparent purposelessness of life, the fearful agony which is endured by 
the majority of mankind in the mere effort to keep life within them, and 
the callous brutality which refuses the most ordinary concessions to the 
needy, which by some irresistible economic law seems to be an absolute 
and enduring necessity of commercial life, and even of social law, cause 
one to stagger at the mere contemplation of the future and the life 
that must be lived by the myriads of children born within the last ten 


126 


THE VEILED HAND 


years in this enormous city. But I will say no more on this, which has 
become with me a fateful ever-recurring delirium. I will tell you of some- 
thing more agreeable. A new turn was given to my thoughts on that day 
I came to see you after our chance meeting in the street. Your children, 
and especially your boy, interested me.” 

“ Yes,” said Muriel, involuntarily, for surely now she thought she was 
right in supposing he had come to speak of Philip. 

“ There was something in that commonplace meeting that I had never 
met with before, not in all my travels, and they have been many and far. 
None of you could have had any knowledge of me or my connections. 
You were, therefore, merely dealing with a stranger, and the warmth of 
your gratitude for the very small and quite accidental service I had been 
able to render you made me feel that I had found at least one bright 
genuine circle, and this discovery awakened the hope that there were 
others.” 

“Why, of course, there are,” said Muriel, who was feeling just trifle 
bored, and she began to sew. 

“And what conclusion do you think I came to?” asked Heritage, 
brightening up. 

“ I’m sure I can’t tell, unless it be that you are very wrong to think so 
ill of everything.” 

“ No,” said Heritage, shaking his head ; “ I came to the conclusion 
that I should get married.” 

“ Of course,” cried Muriel ; “ get a nice bright young wife near you to 
bustle you about and make life cheerful for you.” 

“ Well, you agree to that,” said Heritage, composedly ; and then put- 
ting out his hand to stay the haste of her needle, he asked, looking full 
at her, “ Will you be that wife ?” 

She dropped her work on her lap, and, with a look of horror, cried, 

“ Oh no, Mr. Heritage ; no, no,” and hid her face in her hands, all 
trembling, as if some grievous trial had come upon her. 

Heritage rose and put his hand upon her shoulder. 

“ I have shocked you,” said he, “ but I love you, and you have awak- 
ened within me that which none but God could kindle, and it cannot die. 
It may be bruised. It may be stifled. It may be thrust down and car- 
ried under, but it must live on ; and it is for you and you alone to say 
whether the world is to be bright for me once more — and bright because 
of you.” 

Still she sobbed, with her head bowed down, and once she rose and . 
beat her hands and cried, 

“ Oh, that I could !” and bowed herself again, and groaned as if in 
mortal suffering. 

“Your husband does not live?” asked Heritage, still standing over her, 
and reflecting something of the passionate distress that she had shown. 


THE GROUND-FLOOR LODGER 


127 


“Oh no, no.” 

“Then be comforted, and comfort me, and let your children have a • 
father once again.” 

He stooped down and gently drew her hands from her face, and leaning 
forward, kissed her on the forehead. 

She shuddered, and looking up with most distressful aspect, said, 

“Let me think. Let me be. To-morrow. Let me think — till to- 
morrow.” 

He took her in his arms and kissed her once again, then left her si- 
lently. When alone, she thought in the anguish of her soul — and thought 
long into the night. In the eyrie stillness she resolved ; and from a secret 
place she drew a packet of old letters and a lock of hair, a portrait and a 
piece of soldier’s lace, and one by one she burned them to ashes in the 
grate, with a wild, unearthly look upon her face ; and so, when all those 
hidden treasures were no more but dust among the cinders of the hearth, 
she uttered, in a hoarse and hollow voice, the single monosyllable, 

“Dead!” 


« 


END OF THE THIRD PERIOD 


FOURTH PERIOD: THE EIGHTIES 


Chapter XXI 
THE NEW LEAF 

The turning over of new leaves is an act so constantly enjoined by 
moralists that it has come to be assumed that a new leaf is synonymous 
with amendment, and tliat, in fact, a “ new leaf ” means a good leaf. In 
the case of Geoffrey Delfoy it meant nothing of the sort. Although 
quite new to him in its resultant development and associations, the un- 
derlying principles of this new leaf he proposed to turn over were iden- 
tical with those which had controlled him in the past. Geoffrey Delfoy 
was a born gambler; and while the new leaf enjoined abstention from 
Monte Carlo, and card clubs and book-makers, it prescribed “the City” 
as the proper field for the exercise of Delfoy’s undoubted genius for the 
manipulation of men. 

The decade of which this period of the history here recorded treats 
was signalized by the intrusion among the ranks of born and bred City 
men of a perfect crowd of those who, by reason of their birth, had been 
brought up to regard trade as so much pitch in its power of defilement. 
The first steps of this encroachment of the people of the West upon the 
domains of the East grew out of the passing of certain Acts of Parlia- 
ment, designed to enable people to club their money together to do cer- 
tain things not within the power of the individual to accomplish, or at 
least to enable men of small means to co-operate in the conduct of large 
undertakings without undue risk. The public mind eagerly seized on 
this novel idea, and evangelists of the new commercial gospel were fruit- 
ful in devising the best way of taking advantage of the resources at their 
command. None gave such scope to the imagination as the utilization 
of the aristocracy. The profound veneration in which commerce and the 
commons held everything associated with property and the peerage, as is 
shown by the energy with which they aspire to acquire the one and de- 
nounce the other, gave to the names of persons of title a commercial 
value ; and the quick-witted among them soon discovered that even the 
title “ honorable ” meant so much in solid gold per annum if taken to 
the right market, 


THE NEW LEAF 


129 


At first the ornaments of the gilded salons of fashion were a little shy 
of being associated with the City. They went about the business pretty 
much in the same way as a man pays his first visit to a pawnbroker. 
They secreted themselves in cabs in Pall Mall, whispered an address in 
Broad Street or Change Alley to the driver, and crouched in the corner 
of the cab till they got past Temple Bar, when they gradually emerged 
from seclusion, and did their best to make a show of familiarity with the 
persons and places associated with their new ambitions. But one day it 
became current that the son of a marquis had gone into the tea trade ; 
and a year later the son of a Prime-minister became an export merchant, 
and issued a circular from Downing Street. This was quite suflScient. 
The whole ruck of the aristocracy, not otherwise fully occupied, made a 
rush to the City. Helter-skelter and pell-mell they hustled one another 
to be first in the field, and offered themselves to the highest bidder, re- 
gardless of everything so long as they were “ in the City.” 

The natural consequence of this state of things was the development 
of “ the promoter,” and all that is associated with that mysterious func- 
tionary in commercial enterprise. The object of the law being to pro- 
tect the public, and particularly the public investor, the object of the 
promoter came to be the evasion of all provisions calculated to give that 
protection ; and accordingly coaches and four by the dozen were devised 
to drive through all the Acts ever passed by Parliament in this connec- 
tion, and toll-bars were put up at every entrance into the City to make 
sure that nobody took advantage of the law without first paying the pro- 
prietors of these several coaches and four what moral philosophers, un- 
mollified by familiarity with City practices, would be disposed to call 
“ blackmail,” so like were the practices referred to to those of the free- 
booters and cattle raiders of earlier times. But, owing to the conven- 
tional respectability of those engaged in the practice, its votaries became 
bolder, and not only drove their coaches and four through the Acts of 
Parliament, but positively drove into the High Court of Parliament itself, 
and sat there as bold as brass ; indeed, it is currently reported that one 
of these commercial exotics of unusual courage actually painted his coach 
like the Lord Mayor’s, and made believe he was right honorable and 
chief magistrate of the city of London itself ! 

In course of time the methods of the fraternity became so highly or- 
ganized that vast establishments were created for the supply of titled 
directors on short notice, together with the most enticing baits to attract 
the unwary investor. One bolder than the rest announced to its friends 
and clients that it would undertake to float anything, from a gold mine 
to a patent medicine, and was especially designed to syndicate decaying 
royal houses and undeveloped empires. For this purpose it kept always 
in stock sundry foreign princes, and quite an assortment of the lesser 
continental nobility, the foreign article not warranted in all cases cleanly 
9 


130 


THE VEILED HAND 


in their habits, but otherwise eminently ornamental, and all docile to a 
fault when backed by a stock-broker and a solicitor who knew their busi- 
ness. The humorists of Capel Court said the managers of the institution 
had occasional meetings to practice the routine of board-room business, 
and that budding secretaries were in constant training; that the crest on 
the seal of the concern was an empty money-bag on a desk vert, with the 
motto ex nihilo nihil fit erased ; all of which was vastly entertaining to 
the public, but no sort of consolation to those whom the public irionitors 
described, when commenting upon some particularly atrocious villainy of 
this sort, as “the widow and the orphan.” As a rule there was not much 
of the widow and orphan associated with the business, but merely an ag- 
gregation of those thirsters after cent, per cent, who, in their pursuit of 
wealth, neglect the first principles of commerce — that high interest means 
bad security, and that in the City you should trust no one further than 
you can see him. 

The new leaf that Geoffrey Delfoy proposed to turn over had refer- 
ence to this new condition of things. He had made good use of the 
Conqueror in providing himself with the necessary backstay in the shape 
of private capital, and now he resolved to have no more to do with him. 
The Conqueror and Luckross Castle and the county families were all dis- 
missed as so many effete institutions; and although they were not actually 
renounced, they were put aside as of no present use. But there was this 
marked difference between Geoffrey Delfoy’s procedure and those of his 
class who went into the City and let themselves out as honorable protec- 
tors of the public interest. He was never in his own person ever seen in 
the City ; he Veiled his Hand, and hired the others, without their know- 
ing it, to do those things that he thought it unwise to do himself. The 
monkey in the fable using the cat’s paw to bring out the chestnuts was 
his constant prototype in the world of commerce ; but he improved even 
on that, for he employed some one else to be the monkey. 


Chapter XXII 


THE GREAT CORADELL 

Mr. Septimus Howler, of the firm of Howler Smart, stock-brokers, 
was an altogether superior person, especially in the matter of decoration. 
It was computed by his intimate associates that, including the diamond 
ring and black pearl pin, he could not have been turned out for a less 
sum than £1000, exclusive of the value of the distinguished personality 
himself. He w'as tall and broad and very shiny. The hair of his head 
was dark and shiny, and the hat upon it curved and shone in all direc- 
tions, for the brim was curled and the crown was bell-shaped; his cheeks 
were rubicund and shiny, and his thin overcoat was lined with black satin 
much exhibited to shine at large. Of course his boots were varnished 
and immaculate. He wore a small mustache and a high collar ; but his 
voice was coarse and his manner vulgar. 

He had called early, by appointment, upon Geoffrey Delfoy in the 
Albany, where the distinguished member of Parliament was able to se- 
clude himself from domestic inconveniences, and devote himself wholly 
to politics and commerce. 

Howler removed his hat and coat, and took his stand before the fire, 
by the side of which Delfoy was seated, with the morning paper across 
his knee, looking over the previous night’s debate, and congratulating 
himself on having saved himself from six hours of it without any one be- 
ing a bit the wiser, for there had been no division. 

“ Colonel,” said Howler, “ we shall be at it some little time — may I 
smoke ?” 

“ Certainly, my dear fellow, certainly. Make yourself quite at home, 
and don’t be in a hurry to go away until this little business is settled.” 

“Candid, colonel — candid as usual,” said Howler, lighting a particu- 
larly aromatic cigar. “ Stop here as long as I want yon, and then get 
out as soon as you can, eh ?” 

“ No, no, my dear fellow\ Stop as long as you please, but don’t go 
till we have everything quite clear and straight.” 

“Then it is straight?” said Howler, and he laughed with rude incredu- 
lity, but without causing more emotion in the mind of the colonel than 
was exhibited by a grim smile at the burning coals. 

“You know, my dear Howler,” said he, rising and thrusting out his 
chin, as he commenced declaiming with solemn precision, “this is a good 


132 


THE VEILED HAND 


thing — a perfect thing. It will simply boom from the first day it is 
placed before a discriminating public; but it must be placed in the right 
way.” This was put pointedly to the resplendent stock-broker, with the 
forefinger very much to the front. 

“ Quite so,” said Howler, assuming an air of gravity becoming to a 
prominent adviser of the investing public. “/7/ see to that.” 

“ Yes, my dear fellow ; that’s your part, and I rely on you implicitly.” 

“ And who is coming to-day?” asked Howler. “ How many, and what 
are they ?” 

“Three besides yourself to-day. There’s little Alister, of Bamberger 
A Alister, who supplies the commercial acumen. He will do exactly 
what I require ; and if he doesn’t know what I want on a given point, 
you will find he will reserve his opinion until he has thought the matter 
out, which means he will come and consult me. You may trust him. 
Then there’s Marmaduke Bray, the editor of The Oily Tripod, who, pro- 
vided you will allow him to pretend that he is an independent authority, 
will also do exactly what I require ; but you must give him plenty of 
head. I need not go into particulars, but you may take it that I have 
given Bray assistance, and have claims — yes, claims,” pursued the colonel, 
reflectively. “ I may say I have considerable claims. Bray will be all 
right, but let him show off. I want him to show off. It amuses me.” 

Howler laughed. He said he had had experience of Bray ; in fact, 
knew his measure and price, and he laughed again. 

“ Then,” continued the colonel, “ there’s Shad the vendor — poor Peter, 
I call him, he always looks so miserable. I regard Shad as the most dan- 
gerous; but he’s cheap, and any little mishap with him could be put right 
for half what it would cost in another case. A hundred-pound note is 
wealth in his eyes, and he’ll get five hundred if this goes without a hitch.” 

Howler nodded, and then asked, 

“ What about the solicitor ? Is Huckle coming ?” 

“ Later. Huckle comes after you have all gone. A solicitor, you 
know, my dear fellow, doesn’t like to have personal instructions before 
others. There are things I must tell him that he may have afterwards to 
say he has never heard, and he couldn’t say he never heard them if you, 
for instance, had heard me tell him.” 

Mr. Septimus Howler assented to this principle of action, nodded 
sagely, and smoked on. 

“ You see. Howler, solicitors are queer fellows. What their clients 
tell them doesn’t count, provided it is told when they are alone ; so, you 
see, it is convenient to have Huckle alone, and Huckle comes to lunch at 
1, when I shall tell him all about it. To-morrow you guide the coach.” 

There was a pause ; and then the colonel said, 

“ And now, my dear Howler, I suppose we had better call in Alister ; 
he’s in the next room.” 


THE GKEAT CORADELL 


133 


He rang the bell and directed Dubley, who regarded the change in his 
master’s habits and companions with amazement, and occasionally with 
consternation, to introduce Mr. Alister, and the next moment the acting 
and visible partner of the firm of Bamberger & Alister bounded into the 
room, eager to revel in the glorious proximity of the resplendent Howler, 
and actuated by the daring purpose of enlarging upon the state of the 
money market and the future of stocks. 

Alister was a short and very stout imitation of Howler, with the polish 
rubbed off by wear. He had small dark eyes and a dark oily complexion, 
with black curly hair. He was dressed in a black broadcloth frock-coat, a 
white waiscoat, and trousers of the largest check the loom could produce 
without obliterating the pattern. He wore a massive watch-chain and 
an unusually large diamond ring. 

Although Alister burst into the room with the enthusiasm which only 
an active imagination can inspire, the formality of the introduction and 
the distinguished bearing of the stock-broker, in which an impartial ob- 
server might have detected something of the insolence of a stage courtier, 
put a damper upon Mr. Alister’s energy, and induced him to listen with 
special attention to the colonel’s formal remarks upon the purpose of the 
meeting. ’ 

“ This is the matter,” said the colonel, “ of the great Coradell Copper 
Mine in the Cape Colony that our friend Shad has to sell, and I have ex- 
plained to Mr. Howler that you are the very man for the commercial 
part of the directorship.” 

Alister put his hand on his white waistcoat and bowed. Then, clear- 
ing his throat, he commenced a declaration on the marvellous richness of 
the mine, as was perfectly clear from the sample of ore that the colonel 
had placed op a side-table, with the box below in which it had been 
shipped from the Cape. 

“This enormous mass, sir,” continued Alister, “weighs two hun- 
dred-weight, and it’s almost solid copper. It has been hewn out of 
a mountain of copper. If you examine it you may observe the 
marks of the chisel, and I regard it as unexampled in the history of 
mining.” 

Observing, to his great surprise, that the stock-broker continued smok- 
ing without betraying the least emotion, he appealed to him beseech- 
ingly with, 

“Surely, sir, you wouldn’t prefer a gold mine, with all the terrible 
difficulties of extracting the metal from the quartz ?” 

“ It’s a matter of perfect indifference to me, Mr. Alister,” remarked 
the stock-broker. “ Gold or copper, silver or tin, are all the same 
and having delivered himself of this evidence of his impartiality, he 
was about to resume his cigar when he observed a disposition upon the 
part of Alister to enforce his views of the superiority of copper mines. 


134 


THE VEILED HAND 


and of this particular mine above all others. Turning to the colonel, the 
stock-broker asked, 

“ Don’t you think, colonel, vve had better put this matter on a plain 
footing at once ?” and Delfoy nodding assent, he continued : 

“ I see, Mr. Alister, you have a very high opinion of this mine, and 
are quite capable of expressing that opinion ; but we haven’t met here 
to-day to persuade one another that this is a good mine. We don’t, as a 
matter of fact, care whether it’s good or bad. What we are concerned 
about is how it looks on paper, and how much we are going to get out 
of it. That’s the business view of it to-day, and we had better set 
about considering those two important points on the settled understand- 
ing that we don’t care a tinker’s curse whether the mountain you talk of 
is made of copper or cart-horses.” 

Alister’s eyes opened very wide at this declaration, for, notwithstand- 
ing he should, from previous experience, have become accustomed to the 
general disposition of the colonel in commercial alGfairs, he was continu- 
ally persuading himself, as each venture came before him, that this at 
least was based upon a solid foundation of potential wealth. The sight 
of the large mass of copper ore placed in close proximity to the wooden 
case which had enclosed it, with all the marks of the long sea-voyage 
ostentatiously exhibited upon its side, had filled him with an uncommon 
zeal. Here was indeed a prize, and Bamberger & Alister would be proud 
to be associated with so magnificent a venture. 

It was a cruel blow to his generous enthusiasm to hear a great author- 
ity such as Mr. Septimus Howler ridicule the question of fact, and con- 
sider only the question of seeming. In some respects he was genuinely 
sensitive, and he was honestly distressed to discover in a few minutes 
that one whom he had regarded with idolatrous enthusiasm was little 
better than an unprincipled highwayman, or at least pretended to be. 
Alister sought consolation in the hope that it was only pretence, but his 
reflections and rejoinder were prevented by the appearance of two others, 
Mr. Marmaduke Bray, the accomplished and disinterested editor of The 
City Tripod, and Mr. Peter Shad, who was euphemistically described as 
“ the vendor of the mine.” He did not present the appearance of the 
owner of a mine, or of anything else to speak of. He seemed to be very 
much impressed by the distinguished company in which he found him- 
self, and was too diffident even to salute the colonel and his friend Howler. 

His want of courtesy, however, was not noticed, for the entire com- 
pany was at once monopolized by the autocratic Mr. Bray, and the diffi- 
dent Shad was left alone to seek some out-of-the-way quarter of the 
room in which to put his hat and umbrella. He was a quiet man, spoke 
little, and only on matters of business. He was short of stature and 
high-shouldered, with dark eyes, dark complexion, thick lips, and nearly 
black hair of stubby growth. He dressed in black broadcloth of the 


THE GREAT CORADELL 


135 


ready-made cut, had a repellent manner, and made no friends. How 
much of his morose habit was due to nervousness and indigestion, and 
how much to an essential principle of evil in his nature, would provide 
an excellent question for the moral philosopher, but he was certainly a 
fitting instrument for Colonel Delfoy’s present purpose, and, as he had 
said, very economical. 

Mr. Marmaduke Bray was a great contrast to his companion. There 
was no want of assurance about Bray. Although of medium height and 
of commonplace physique, except in the matter of hair, which was 
abundant and intrusive, he created an impression that he was an unusually 
large person, of profound knowledge and experience, and endowed with 
consummate judgment. This impression w’as not conveyed by his dress, 
which, although rather extreme in tone and cut, was not calculated to 
impress one, but seemed to result from his sonorous bass voice, that 
rolled out platitudes in great abundance, and was delivered with the air 
of a man who was accustomed to be listened to. Some people used to 
say it was his nose that commanded attention, and it must be admitted 
that there was a certain generic fulness about it, and a tendency to that 
curve which has been recognized and also satirized as the line of beauty, 
that would account for much of the pushing deposition of Mr. Marma- 
duke Bray. In ordinary circumstances Mr. Septimus Howler would have 
resented a manner of this description, but the circumstances were novel, 
and even Mr. Septimus Howler bowed to The City Tripod, and, as a 
stock-broker, devoted a good many offerings to its high-priest. 

“You know, colonel, our friend Howler takes a too optimistic view 
of everything,” he was saying when his companion Shad ventured on the 
outskirts of this portentous circle of City influence. “ Mines, colonel, 
are a little overdone. We must be careful not to overdo things. The 
investing public has become shy. There have been some ugly falls lately 
— very ugly — and I confess that for my part I regard mines as a drug.” 

Mr. Bray marched about the ropm as he delivered himself of this prop- 
osition ; and even the colonel, whose creature he undoubtedly was, felt 
somewhat abashed by the confldent air and voluminous tones of the 
editor of The City Tripod, Alister’s confidence in the superiority of 
copper, and of this particular mine over all others, was not merely shaken, 
but obliterated. He was struck dumb, and looked to the stock-broker 
for support. Howler, however, continued smoking, and his only re- 
sponse to Bray’s utterance was to offer Bray a cigar. . Bray took it with 
the remark that Mr. Howler’s cigars were always perfection ; and when 
he had lit it he smiled with such affability as he smoked that one would 
have supposed he had been eloquent in praise of the enterprise they had 
met to fashion. 

They were a curious company — curiously dissimilar in social status, 
mental qualities, and vocation, but they had a common purpose some- 


136 


THE VEILED HAND 


what akin to the vulgar ambition of making black appear white, and 
their proceedings were the more curious from the way the oddly assorted 
company hovered between keeping up an appearance of commercial 
probity and recklessly daring complete indifference to everything but the 
criminal law. 

“Don’t let me throw a damper upon your enterprise, gentlemen,” said 
Bray, when he had got his cigar fairly alight. “.Don’t let us falter on 
the threshold because we meet with a trifling difficulty. The public prej- 
udice can be corrected by those who have its confldence. Friend Howler 
is a tower of strength in himself, and I can do a little to put tone into 
the money market. Tone is the great factor of commercial credit, eh, 
colonel — tone ?” 

This was felt to be very consoling, and the colonel answered, 

“ No, Bray, you sha’n’t throw a damper on us ; and what’s more, my 
my dear fellow, you shall have all the assistance possible in working up 
the tone of the market.” 

“ Quite so,” said Howler, throwing away the end of his cigar, “ but as 
time’s precious, let us see how it looks. Come, colonel.” 

The colonel responded by producing a few sheets of foolscap, fixed 
together at the corner, and assuming an impressive attitude, said, 

“ We need not go over the list of officials. You, gentlemen, will settle 
that to-morrow with the others. What we have to do now is to fix the 
major points.” 

“ Certainly,” said the stock-broker. “ The capital and the price.” 

“The capital I put at £200,000,” said the colonel, “and the price at 
£150,000, half in cash and half in shares. That’s moderate enough.” 

“ Too little,” said Bray, again on the march, “ far too little. Nothing 
can be done with a couple of hundred thousand. There’s no room for 
any one in a paltry figure like that. Your scheme wants breadth,” he 
went on, with great energy, and swinging his arm round as if he would 
embrace at least half a hemisphere. “ You must have breadth, gentle- 
men, to catch the ear of the public. There’s nothing to appeal to the 
imagination in anything under a quarter of a million, and I say half a 
million. Why, colonel,” he continued, bringing himself and his obser- 
vations to a sudden halt, “ where should I be with anything less than 
half a million ? I couldn’t put enthusiasm into a couple of hundred 
thousand. The idea’s absurd.” 

And having thus settled the question, Mr. Bray resumed his walk and 
smoke. 

“What do you say, Howler?” asked the colonel, who desired to ex- 
hibit the most perfect impartiality, and to show he had no prejudices in 
favor of two hundred thousand or any other sum. It was apparently all 
one to him. 

• “ Well, you see, colonel,” said the stock-broker, “ there’s a great deal 


THE GREAT CORADELL 


137 


of truth in what Bray says. You must have something to talk about, 
and there’s a good deal more in a half a million than two hundred thou- 
sand to talk about.” 

“ More than twice as much,” said Alister, whose enthusiasm was be*- 
ginning to rise again, and who thought this a favorable opportunity to 
show that he knew twice two made four. 

“You see, colonel,” Howler went on, “two hundred thousand is a 
commonplace affair; and this, I take it, is something exceptional.” 

“ Decidedly exceptional,” exclaimed Alister ; “ most exceptional.” 

“ Very well,” said the colonel, with a sigh, “ we’ll put it down at half 
a million, and then what about the price?” 

“ Oh, of course,” burst in Bray, “ that increases jpari passu. Three 
hundred and fifty thousand say, and throw out the odd twenty-five. You 
can afford to do that, colonel.” 

Mr. Bray resumed his walk, remarking, 

“ It’s of no use to be niggardly in these matters. You must make a 
thing shape well. The investing public are never attracted by a mean 
programme. They like to be dazzled. Friend Howler knows that. 
Colonel, you’ll get your price if you work out your prospectus on the 
basis of half a million. I know them. I can unfurl the standard of 
the golden era to the tune of half a million with some effect, but a paltry 
two hundred thousand — never.” 

Mr. Bray had got to the other end of the room by this time, and 
found he had let his cigar out in the course of his declamation. The re- 
lighting it necessitated silence. 

“ Bray is right,” said the colonel ; “ eh. Howler ?” 

Howler assented, and made approaches to a more delicate subject. 

“ How does it cut up, eh ?” he asked. 

The colonel cleared his throat, shook the foolscap paper, raised his 
eyebrows, and remarked, with apparent indifference, 

“Two-thirds go the vendor, and the other I leave at your disposal. 
Howler.” 

With this he threw the paper on the table, and put his hands in his 
pockets, with a sigh. 

“ Yes, yes,” assented Howler, “ and we drop all round proportionately 
as we don’t get the half-million.” 

“ Precisely,” said the colonel, looking up at the ceiling, while every- 
body else seemed absorbed in the contemplation of one or other of the 
various objects in the room, as if they had no sort of interest in the sub- 
division of the third referred to, and would not for the world disturb the 
train of thought upon which the colonel had entered.. So indifferent, 
indeed, did they appear that any one would have supposed they had been 
performing before at least five hundred of the future investors in the 
Great Coradell. 


138 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ Then, it’s understood,” said the colonel, “ that the capital is half a 
million, and the price three hundred and fifty thousand ; and you, Mr. 
Shad, will remember when you meet the promoters to-morrow that your f 
price is £350,000. I suppose you can tell them about the property, 
eh?” 

Shad, who hadn’t spoken since he had entered the room, and had been 
a good deal bewildered by the unconscionable use to which his friends 
had put the multiplication table, remarked in a' bashful manner that he 
had the description of the property in his pocket. 

“ Yes ; and you’ve been there and surveyed it,” dogmatized the 
colonel. 

“ I’ve just come from South Africa,” said Shad, apologetically. 

“ Of course you have,” said the colonel ; “ that’s how you came to 
have the property to sell.” 

This was very instructive to Shad, who had never heard of the Coradell - . 
Copper Mine before that very morning, when he had for the first time j 
looked upon the description of its extent and richness fresh from the | 
artistic pen of Mr. Marmaduke Bray ; and had heard casually, as a matter 
of no special consequence, that if things went well he would have a re- ; 
spectable sum at his disposal for the trouble of casting his eye over the 
various documents, and pretending the mine was his. i 

“ Now, I suppose,” said Alister, “ you did not see that massive sample ^ 
cut out of the rock with your own eyes, Mr. Shad, eh?” 

Shad hadn’t. 

“ Why, my dear friend,” interposed Bray, addressing Alister pointedly, 

“ you don’t suppose Mr. Shad has been going about South Africa with 
a crow-bar and pickaxe levelling the mountains. That’s not the way 
mines are bought. A capitalist like Mr. Shad has his mining engineers 
and his assayers and his agents examining the configuration of the country, 
and estimating the mineral wealth of a district, before he ventures upon 
a purchase in the interest of the British investor. Mr. Shad has a grand 
property, and he wants £350,000 for it; and he’s going to have it, so 
that’s all about it.” 

This settled the question for that day at least, and they all left with ^ 
the understanding that they met at the office of Messrs. Huckle & Broil, 
solicitors, Corby n’s Court, City, next morning at 11. Mr. Shad would 
attend at 10.30, to go through the formality of making the acquaintance 
of his solicitor, whom he had not yet seen, before proceeding to the 
weighty business of disposing of the Great Coradell Copper Mine. The 
vendor was thereupon taken charge of by Mr. Bray, and Mr. Alister had' 
the inestimable satisfaction of being driven into the City by the crowning 
glory of Capel Court. 


Chapter XXIII 


THE SOLICITOR 

The colonel had an excellent lawyer for his purposes, John Iluckle, 
who could mark out the line between legal right and legal wrong to a 
hair’s-breadth, and who would put a client through a labyrinth of crim- 
inal intent, with criminal profit, without committing a single act con- 
demned by the criminal law — a choice spirit, who accepted the dictum of 
Blackstone, that law is the perfection of reason ; and added a view of his 
own, that it had nothing to do with morals. 

John Huckle could not be better described than as an angular man. 
He had not a curve in his whole physical conformation. Anatomically 
he must have been very big in the bone ; and for the rest of him, he was 
all muscle and sinew, without a particle of adipose tissue — an essentially 
tough morsel, of whom one might say he could have travelled among 
cannibals with impunity. As a lawyer he was rough and ready — much 
freer from those methods generically classed as red tape, but no one 
would ever think of John Huckle driving a coach and four through an 
Act of Parliament ; it would, in his case, be a team of Clydesdales in a 
lorry, loaded with iron girders, heavy, irresistible, and square. 

Huckle was not only knock-kneed, but his left leg was more bent than 
the right ; his feet were very large, yet he never stood quite erect, but 
always swerved to the right or left when standing; his elbows stood out 
from his body when his hands were not occupied, and his neck craned 
forward or sideways, or any other way than upright. If he had been 
handed over to an artist to put him in order, he could have been made 
handsome and dignified ; but moral obliquity seemed to influence every 
bone and muscle in his body, and a head that would have looked well 
under a full-bottomed wig upon the bench was disfigured by screwed-up 
eyes, a mouth that was always going awry, and a cheek and brow coursed 
with deep furrows in unlovely angles. What could nature do against an 
influence capable of so much distortion ? 

The colonel was having a busy time. Huckle, as he had said, was to 
come at 1 to lunch, and he came 4 )unctually to the minute. He brought 
a small bag with him full of deeds and plans and official extracts and 
certified titles to the property in the Great Coradell Copper Mine, all or- 
namented in the most approved style with red seals and green ribbon, 
and just a string or two of red tape to maintain the accepted traditions. 


140 


■THE VEILED HAND 


He brought in the bag in his right liand, gave the colonel two fingers of 
his left, with “ How are yer my friend ?” put down the bag, and emptied 
its contents on a side-table, counted the papers, “ One, two, three,” up 
to “six,” exclaimed, “All right, colonel, everything in order; lunch first, 
business after, eh, colonel ?” and sat down as if the place were his own, 
and the colonel his office boy. 

The colonel didn’t like it, but he said nothing. This was Mr. Huckle’s 
private manner — his cabinet demonstrations, not his public and profes- 
sional demeanor. 

If it had occurred to him to consider the point, or he had been asked 
to define the distinction, he would have pointed out that ceremony w^as 
a waste of time between men who had a common object, who knew w'hat 
they wanted, and how to achieve it. 

“ See us before the enemy, my friend,” he would say ; “ that’s the time 
for ceremony, and rule and order. The more the better, because when 
you flash the showy bits about the duffers don’t see the substance, you 
know,” and he would laugh aloud at the contemplation of his philos- 
ophy. 

The same practical spirit controlled him in the matter of lunch. Know- 
ing his habit, the colonel had provided three thick mutton chops, juicy 
from the gridiron, and a little whiskey and water. A delicate dejeuner 
a la fourchette would have been thrown away on Huckle, who protested 
he always went for substance and despised shadows. 

“ So this is going to turn out a good thing, colonel, eh ?” he asked, as 
they neared the close of the lunch. 

The colonel protested it was a very good thing, and that Howler took 
a brighter view than he did himself. Bray, he said, was enthusiastic, 
and insisted on doubling the price. 

“And what’s that for?” asked the lawyer. 

“Because they think a mountain of copper is worth it, I suppose,” 
said the colonel, unconcernedly. “ But, my dear Huckle, let’s get the 
plans and maps laid out. I have something important to tell you — some- 
thing very important, that you must keep me straight about. Upon 
my soul, Huckle, I would prefer not to tell you, but I am a little bit 
afraid of your making a slip if you haven’t the actual point straight be- 
fore you.” 

Do as you like,” said Huckle, rising and scattering the crumbs about, 
to the great annoyance of Dubley. “ Tell me as much as you like, or as 
little as you like, but it’s a bad plan not to tell your doctor all your 
symptoms and all your follies. If you had a supper of Welsh rarebit, 
and four whiskeys on the top of a bottle of stout, don’t tell your doctor 
you had nothing but a plain biscuit and a glass of water. No, no,” con- 
tinued Huckle, shaking his head, “ that would be wrong — very wrong.” 

Well, it s an important matter,” said the colonel, in his most impress- 


THE SOLICITOR 


141 


ive style, “ but we must keep it between our two selves ; so lay out the 
large map, showing the whole of the lots.” 

Huckle promptly obeyed, and spread out on the floor a large sheet, 
measuring about six feet by four, upon which various plots were dis- 
tinguished by numbers and colors. In the centre or thereabouts was a 
large irregular tract, colored green, that represented the Great Coradell 
Copper Mine ; and pointing at it, he sa'id, 

“ There’s the article in question ; that’s the nice little lot that has cost 
you just over twenty-five thousand, and you’re asking for it a comfort- 
able three hundred and fifty.” 

“No, lluckle, not I — Shad. Keep in mind the client, Huckle, for 
God’s sake. You make me tremble.” 

Huckle laughed a loud discordant laugh, and then added : 

“ Don’t be afraid, my friend ; John Huckle knows his client when he’s 
dealing with the enemy. But I mustn’t forget that you’re behind Shad, 
else I should be handing him over the money, and that would be too 
realistic, eh, colonel ?” 

He had his arms under his coat-tails, standing before the fire; and as 
he put this question he cocked his head on one side, drew his mouth 
down at the left corner, closed his left eye, and exhibited to his friend 
and client his notion of a note of interrogation in the form of a very 
ungainly contortion of the human frame. 

The colonel was appeased. The bare probability of transferring the 
full price of the Great Coradell Copper Mine to Shad in place of the 
modest honorarium he had designed for him was a clinching argument 
against Huckle becoming too much absorbed in his ostensible client. 
The colonel pursued the subject of the meeting. 

“ I want you now, Huckle, to show me the list of the whole of the 
properties that I have bought, and how the titles stand at this moment — 
all the properties round the base of the mine, you know.” 

“ To be sure,” said Huckle, and at once put his hand on the largest 
bundle of the papers. “ Here they are ; short abstract of each — complete 
definition of each plot, numbered according to the numbers on the plan 
— list of owners, from the original grant downward, and precis of every 
official record.” 

“ Now,” said the colonel, in his most serious manner, “ I’m going to 
put to you a very important question, Huckle, and when you’ve an- 
swered it. I’m going to tell you why I put it, and ask you again ; but 
I want your answer first, so that I may have your answer uninfluenced 
by knowledge of my motive.” 

“ Good,” said Huckle, with his head on one side after the manner of 
a designing jackdaw. 

“ Is there any single part of the property surrounding the base of the 
hill known as the Great Coradell Copper Mine, and marked green on the 


142 


THE VEILED HAND 


plan — even so much as a square yard — that belongs to anybody but 

7ner 

The colonel shot out the last part of the sentence at his lawyer with 
such determination and earnestness that Huckle for the moment began 
to doubt, what he had never doubted before, that the whole of the land, 
for a band of not less than two miles, and in some cases extending for 
five miles, was the colonel’s, and 'the colonel’s alone. But when he had 
recovered his composure, he answered clearly and emphatically to that 
effect. 

“ That’s well,” said the colonel, gravely, “ very well and after a 
pause, during which Huckle regarded him with a comical expression of 
curiosity and amusement, the colonel lifted his eyebrows and recoyi- 
menced, 

“ Now, Huckle, I’m going to tell you the real bit of business I have 
in hand. The price I get for this wonderful rich copper mine — for it is 
rich, you know, Huckle — 75 per cent., I think, or more, I don’t know — 
the price I say, Huckle, is only the first part of the business, because 
when Shad has sold it to the company it won’t be worth twopence to 
them as a mine until they have paid something more to me for some- 
thing else.” 

“ The devil !’’ exclaimed Huckle. 

“ No, not twopence, because they have no water on the land, and they 
can’t get any except from me. Now, to buy my river down in lot 6, or 
to build a big reservoir and trench the hill, would cost them a hundred 
thousand; and beside this, they haven’t a road to carry the ore away, ex- 
cept through my land, and I sha’n’t let 'em enter it except at a price.” 

Huckle skipped round the room and roared with laughter, slapped the 
colonel on the back, and generally behaved himself with a total want of 
decorum. 

“They can’t carry away the ore by a balloon, Huckle, can they?” said 
the colonel, grinning. 

“ Of course not. Ha, ha ! oh, oh ! What an infernal rogue Shad is ! 
What a deep dog ! He’ll never tell me as he ought to do — ha, ha! — be- 
cause he doesn’t know it himself — oh, oh ! That rascal Shad will never 
whisper this to a soul. He’ll let them all in, me included ; and who 
would ever think it of him, so quiet and unobtrusive? 0 Lord; it’ll be 
the death of me.” 

The lawyer sat down and wiped his eyes, and brought himself to a 
state of composure with a diminuendo of spasmodic jerks of merriment; 
and at last, being thoroughly recovered, he said, in his own hard, mechan- 
ical way, 

“Well, colonel, you want my opinion on the case, as you put it, and 
my opinion is exactly as I put it before, and I’m right unless there’s 
some infernal fanciful statute out in those regions that we don’t know 


THE SOLICITOR 


143 


of, and the sooner I find that out the better. I’ll pump the Crown agent, 
and get the information out of him before you act. When will you act, 
colonel ?” 

“ I sha’n’t act. They will have to act. I shall only stand in the road. 
They’ll have to get me out of the road. I’m a passive agent, Huckle. 
You’ll be the solicitor for the company of course, and you’ll advise ac- 
cordingly. Shad must get another, and you’d better fix on one for him.” 
“ Good,” said Huckle, gathering up the papers. “ Anything more ?” 
“ No, nothing just now, except that you may as well keep in mind 
, that I shall apply for £1000 worth of shares myself, and I must trust to 
r you and Howler not to let me have so many. You must put it that if 
j I don’t get the thousand I shall go about and talk, and that my grumbling 
I will put up the stock. Two or three hundred will be enough to get 
I me a holding, you see.” • 

I Huckle did see, and was ready to start for the City, when it occurred 
' to him to ask who the directors were to be, and to express a hope they 
would be good names. “ Oh yes, capital names. Howler’s done very 
well,” said the colonel languidly. “ Alister is the only one that you 
know — Bamberger & Alister. There’s a peer or two, and a younger 
son, and there’s a Captain Somebody for secretary. You’ll be amused 

I with old Geizer. He’s reported to be a German baron, but I expect he’s 
a Dutchman of some sort. He’s been out to the Cape, lived there, 
knows the property, and will be one of your leading cards. If he goes 
to sleep at the board meeting, leave him alone. He’s better asleep, be- 
cause we don’t want his local knowledge developed in camera^ 

“Do any of them know anything about the matter?” asked Huckle. 

“ God forbid !” exclaimed the colonel, who was now more at his ease. 
“ It isn’t necessary they should know. They are not selected for know- 
ing. Howler selects them for seeming to know. It’s the public’s busi- 
ness to find out whether they know or not. The public ought to want 
them to know, but it won’t ask the question. We don’t want them to 
know, and we do ask the question. You see, Huckle,” continued the 
colonel, “ the game is in the hands of the people, who take care of them- 
selves. The practice of the occult arts, of which commerce in its highest 
grades is one, is not reserved for the common mind. I dare say, Huckle, 
you would contest ray proposition that commerce is an occult art, but if 
you do you are wrong. Commerce is based on concealment and dis- 
covery. Sooner or later the many have to pay for their ignorance, and 
the few profit by their special knowledge. The severe moralist no 
doubt condemns everything in commerce that goes beyond barter, but 
the severe moralist in commerce is an ass.” 

Huckle, standing with his hat and coat on, his umbrella under his 
arm, and his black bag in his hand, nodded and grinned. To hear the 
colonel moralize was a supreme gratification. It was much more humor- 


144 


THE VEILED HAND 


ous to him than any comic journal of his acquaintance. Encouraged by 
Buckle’s attention, the colonel continued, 

“There was that fellow Bowdler, in the House the other night, preach-, 
ing about what he called ‘ the ultimate resting-place, of profits.’ It was 
on a Budget resolution, and the fellow represents a lot of those navvies, 

I suppose, or colliers, and wants to make out that we should all divide 
up. What does it matter where profits go to as long as there are prof- 
its. It doesn’t matter to the State, Buckle, whether you or I get them, 
or whether Bowdler gets them. We all want ’em ; and whether it’s 
you or me or Bowdler, the State may rest assured we’ll get as much of 
what’s going as we can. Why, look at this Great Coradell. I know 
about it. Other people don’t. Why, Buckle, when you come to think 
of it, there are hundreds of people all over the country, now, at this very 
minute, making profits, and accumulating them in their quiet little w'ay, 
by selling little bits of things over the counter — tapes and spinning tops 
and bottles of gin and so on — and when our friend Howler had set the 
ball spinning all these people will be hurrying up to have a bit of ray 
Great Coradell, and they shall have it, and I’ll have their surplus profits. 
What does the State care ? That’s commerce. So of what use is it for 
a fellow like Bowdler keeping men in the House from their dinner about 
such an absurdity as the resting-place of profits. But I know Bowdler. 
He wants some of the navvies’ and miners’ profits — and he’s no fool.” 

The colonel began shaking his head with extreme complacency at some 
thoughts the contemplation of Mr. Bowdler’s wisdom gave rise to, and 
Huckle took advantage of the pause to say, 

“ I’ve just thought of a solicitor for Shad, colonel. Mr. Trip, of Trip 
& Colley — very good man for us.” 

“ Ah !” said the colonel, abstractedly. 

“ I’ll call on him on my way back, and arrange for him to attend to- 
morrow. It will be better he should take the matter in hand at once.” 

“Yes, yes. You’ll keep him straight, my dear Huckle.” 

“ Oh yes. I’ll let him know where the plum is to be picked. Trip has 
a keen scent for the sugary bits in life. By-by.” 



THE ARISTOCRACY IN THE CITY 


Chapter XXIV 


\ 


Mr. Shad burrowed among the courts and alleys of the City early 
I next morning, and discovered Corbyn’s Court under an archway with 
1 , iron gates originally designed to secure the privacy of an aldermanic 
residence, and perhaps to guard the aldermanic plate. The mansion at 
this time had been cut up into numerous sections, and Mr. Shad dis- 
covered the doorway of No. 4 squeezed into a corner of the court by 
some recent utilitarian owner, who by this means of access had converted 
a range of domestic offices into a considerable yearly revenue. Mr. 
Shad, after much peering about, discovered a board on which was dimly 
discernible the name of Iluckle & Broil, Solicitors, followed by the word 
I “Basement.” The dust of many years had encrusted upon it, indicating 
; to persons of experience that the firm was of great age and stability, but 
i conveying to Mr. Shad the idea that it was very poor; and he went 
down-stairs with some misgivings as to his future acquisitions by this 
! curious enterprise upon which he was engaged, for his colonial experience 
! supplied him with no parallel to the fact of anything in the nature of 
wealth being associated with systematized dirt. But, reassuring himself, 
with the reflection in his molish way that he could not possibly lose any- 
! thing, because he had nothing to lose, he went down the stairs stealthily, 
and found a doorway, the upper part of which was glazed so as to admit 
I a portion of the very poor liglft on its other side into the passage in 
1 which he stood — another indication, he thought, of the extreme poverty 
I of Iluckle & Broil, but otherwise interpreted in metropolitan experience 
! as a commonplace example of the art of making the most of things, a 
I principle that was still further illustrated by the painting of the name 
I “ Iluckle & Broil ” upon the glass doorway, so that it could be deciphered 
i by visitors without the expense of artificial light. 

j ^ Shad opened the door and made known his wants to an ancient clerk, 

! who appeared to have taken a vow of silence ; for, without speaking, he 
I noiselessly conducted the visitor into the presence of Mr. Iluckle, and 
! closed the door upon him with great care. 

Huckle’s room was large and low, and was lighted by a range of 
windows looking out onto some garden ground ; and although the strug- 
gling laurel and privet bushes could not be said to be flourishing, the 
sight of them in contrast with the mass of dusty papers, tin boxes, and 


10 


146 


THE VEILED HAND 


gloomy furniture spread about the room gave one a feeling of being 
at least upon the surface of the earth, and not in cavernous depths bur- 
rowing for fugitive gold. Shad also received some satisfaction from the 
sight of the sample of ore cut out of the Great Coradell. It was con- 
spicuously placed on a small table near the window, with the South 
African packing case underneath it as evidence of its genuineness, and 
with the light full upon it to show there was no deception. 

Huckle received Shad with a friendly nod, and asked him to sit 
down, which Shad did, while Huckle continued reading his letters as if 
he were quite alone. Shad would have been entertained if he had 
been a more appreciative person than he was by the amazing contor- 
tions of Huckle’s face as he read his letters, for with some his eyes went 
up into the middle of his forehead, and with others the deep creases of 
his cheeks stretched down to the bottom of his jaw, then his mouth 
would purse up and emit a low whistle, and for every different emotion 
awakened by his correspondence he seemed to be provided with a dif- 
ferent muscular movement of his unusually hard face. 

When he had gone through his letters he turned to Shad and said, 

“ You’ve got a good job on hand, Mr. Shad — a profitable job,” and 
saying this he nodded and smiled, and seemed to be shaking hands with 
himself. 

Shad said he hoped the thing would turn out well, and moved nerv- 
ously on his seat. • 

“They’ll be here in half an hour, you know,” said Huckle, “ and in a 
minute or two your solicitor will be here.” 

Shad looked surprised, and said, 

“ Will he?” 

“ Yes,” said Huckle, nodding and grinning. “ Mr. Trip, of Trip & 
Colley, in Gray’s Inn. He’s to be your solicitor. I’ll tell him all about 
it. I shall represent the company. I can’t represent both you and the 
company — oh dear, no. That would never do, Mr. Shad ; but I may 
give you a bit of friendly advice. Whatever you do, don’t go beyond 
the statements in the papers you have in your pocket, and don’t do 
anything but what your solicitor tells you. Refer everybody to Mr. 
Trip.” 

The lawyer had scarcely finished this piece of advice when the door 
opened, and Mr. Trip himself appeared. He was a thin elderly man,^ 
with a very pinched face and long projecting nose, that he was much 
given to screwing up when reading documents, as if the distortion of 
his nose was in some way connected with the process of extracting in- 
formation from the writings. 

“ Good-morning, Mr. Trip ; here’s your client. Take his instructions, 
we shall soon be ready for you. Here are the documents.” 

So saying, Huckle handed over a bundle of papers to Trip, who mere- 


THE ARISTOCRACY IN THE CITY 


147 


ly shook hands with Shad, hoped the business would be managed agree- 
I ably, and then took no more notice of him, but began reading the 
I documents with great eagerness. Huckle, in like manner, continued 
I engrossed with his correspondence, and Shad was left to himself with as 
little ceremony as if he had been only another sample from the Cape — 
a necessary and accidental but otherwise wholly uninteresting subject. 

This was the condition of things when Mr. Septimus Howler entered 
I the room. Both the lawyers, as well as Shad, rose to receive him. 

I “ Good-morning, Mr. Howler,” said Huckle ; “ let me introduce to you 
" Mr. Trip, of Trip' & Colley, Mr. Shad’s solicitor. 

Mr. Howler said he was glad to make Mr. Trip’s acquaintance, shook 
hands with him, nodded to Shad, and presumed everything was in order. 
Upon this Huckle took him apart and explained Mr. Trip’s position. 

Before he had finished there was an arrival — Baron Geizer, a short, 
stout and florid person, with a large round face and a very small amount 
of fair hair. The baron was followed by Captain Sickle, who stood six 
feet four in his stockings, and hoped to be made secretary off-hand. He 
I was hurried into a waiting-room until the formality of election should 
[ have been gone through ; and was much consoled by a nod from Howler, 
whose familiarity conveyed great wealth of promise. The next arrivals 
were Mr. Alister, who wore a blue necktie in honor of the occasion ; the 
Marquis of Maladore, who wore a wig, and used gold-rimmed eye-glasses 
! upon a faint and expressionless face; the Honorable James Flaire,a prime 
I specimen of the younger son, who -dyed his whiskers and mustache a 
raven black ; and finally Mr. Walter Gowcher, who claimed to be a mem- 
ber of one of the Inns of Court, and to have been at Cambridge, but 
who had never in the whole course of his life overcome the diflSculties 
of the aspirate, and whose mode of spdech was otherwise eccentric. 

But whatever his education or profession, Gowcher was a very useful 
man. Howler knew his value. Education and culture are not always 
associated with accumulations of capital, and Gowcher moved as a great 
authority among the aristocracy of Hackney. What was more natural 
than that Gowcher, on meeting an opulent grocer should say, “That’s a 
good thing the Marquis of Maladore and me’s bringing out;” or, “If 
you’d like a flutter with that Great Coradell me and the Marquis of 
Maladore’s got a ’and in. I’d back your application.” The consequences 
are obvious. The glory of the peerage, reflected though it was by the 
somewhat harsh and illiterate accents of the parvenu Gowcher, was still 
reflected, and, strange as it may seem, “me and the marquis” caused 
many a pretty sum to fall into the treasury of companies that owed their 
being to Mr. Septimus Howler. 

“ You’ve got a extra good thing ’ere, my lord,” said Gowcher to the 
marquis on being introduced. He felt it was his duty to say something 
encouraging — Howler, he thought, expected that. 


148 


THE VEILED HAND 


The marquis put bis eye-glasses on, and peering up into his new ac- 
quaintance’s face, for Gowcher was a tall man, he said, 

“ Oh, you think it a good thing, sir ?” 

“ Rather, my lord ; I shouldn’t ’ave been ’ere if it wasn’t. There 
ain’t been such a good thing in the City for many a long day.” 

“ That’s encouraging,” said the marquis ; “ I am glad to hear you 
say so.” 

And he expressed his delight by getting as far away from his embryo 
colleague as possible. As he approached the door his old friend Gen- 
eral Dowles arrived, breathless with haste. He had attended two board 
meetings already, signed the attendance book at both, and had rushed 
off to assist at the introduction to a confiding public of this new joint- 
stock enterprise. 

“ Now, my lords and gentlemen,” said Mr. Howler, “ I think we are 
all here, and I presume we may ask the marquis to take the chair.” 

This was quite in accordance with the inexorable laws of precedence 
and the feelings of the company. The marquis took the chair, and 
found before him a piece of foolscap on which was written in large 
round hand the heads of the business to be transacted, all artfully indi- 
cating without absolutely expressing the conclusion it was expected the 
eminently respectable company would arrive at after ample discussion. 

The first item suggested a statement from Mr. Howler, who said that 
before introducing the Great Coradell Mine to their notice he wished to 
point out that it would be necessary for them to have a secretary ; and 
that Captain Sickle, who had signified his desire to act in that capacity, 
was in the next room, and was ready to assist at once, without commit- 
ing my lords and gentlemen to any engagement. This was pronounced 
by general' consent to be very liberal on the part of the captain, and he 
was invited in at once, to take his seat on the left hand of the marquis, 
who, addressing the company, presumed it was their pleasure to utilize 
Captain Sickle’s services as secretary without any obligation on either 
side. ' 

The human cormorant is usually gracious and conciliatory so long as 
the carcass is only expected and not present. Eager self-assertion and 
determination to acquire the tidbits come later. There was not a man 
at that meeting who would have objected to anything whatever proposed 
from the chair at the instigation of Mr. Septimus Howler. They were 
all looking forward to getting something for themselves, and they felt 
that any resistance to granting what was proposed for others would only 
be inviting examination of the grounds for placing some morsel at their 
disposal. The resplendent Howler, indeed, was regarded as the con- 
troller of a sort of lucky bag, and although the assembled company had 
every confidence in him, from his general reputation and past experience, 
they could not resist a feeling of anxiety as to what he had in his bag 


THE ARISTOCRACY IN THE CITY 


149 


for them individually, and this anxiety seriously conflicted with the 
necessity to preserve a grave demeanor and a watchful eye in the inter- 
ests of the public, as provided for by the statute. It is true Captain 
Sickle had nothing but work at present at his disposal, and no money; 
but every one present knew what the thin end of the wedge meant in 
these cases; and if Howler had asked them to swear on the edge of a 
r drawn sword to stand by Captain Sickle to the death they would have 
f done it; and what is more, without any swearing at all, they resolved 
^ by simple intuition that Captain Sickle was to be the one and only sec- 
I retary of the Great Coradell. 

This done, the organization was complete for the great initiatory 
i function. The vendor, mute, humble, but sinister, supported by his 

I solicitor, sat at the end of the table. The Stock Exchange, gorgeous 

i and resolute, sat at the side of the table; and on his left was Huckle, the 

I presumptive solicitor to the new but as yet unformed company. The 

I rest of the party, including the marquis at one end of the social scale 
and the incomprehensible Gowcher at the other, officiated as guardians 
of the public investor, and assumed as wise an appearance as possible. 
Mr. Howler informed “ my lords and gentlemen ” that they were all 
business men, a piece of gross flattery that none of them felt it possible 
to deny, and that no doubt they had other engagements that they were 
anxious to keep, a statement that General Dowles, who hoped to score 
another three guineas by signing his name in a directors’ attendance 
book round the corner if he left the marquis’s party at two, cordially 
approved. The eminent stock-broker accordingly, not wanting to beat 
about the bush, said that Mr. Shad had the Great Coradell Copper Mine 
for sale, and was prepared to sell it for £350,000, and that it was pro- 
posed to bring out the company at half a million. Provisions would be 
made out of the purchase price for finding the necessary qualification 
for the directors, and every precaution had been taken to prevent any 
false impression getting current as to the hona fides and value of the 
mine. This delicate reference to the services expected of Mr. Bray was 
not fully appreciated by those present, until it was supplemented by the 
statement that the editor of The City Tripod had expressed a very 
high opinion of the venture. The eminent stock-broker concluded his 
statement by calling attention to the sample of ore which had been 
brought from South Africa for their information by Mr. Shad, and 
which was sufficient evidence in itself of the extraordinary richness of 
the estate now offered to them. 

At the conclusion of this very brief and matter-of-fact statement the 
marquis coughed feebly, resettled his glasses, and exclaimed, with much 
interest, as if he had made an important discovery, 

“ Oh, then this is a mine we are dealing with.” 

“ Yes, my lord,” said Howler, with all seriousness ; “ a copper mine.” 


150 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ Oh !” said the marquis, “ very interesting. South Africa. There’s 
a great future for South Africa I’m told.” 

“There ain’t a more likely place for good specs in a-11 the world,” 
said Gowcher, with energy; to which the marquis, being at the other end 
of the table, responded, 

“Ah yes, you say so. Very good.” 

The Honorable James Flaire, who had been smoking cigarettes with 
great assiduity up to this time, thought it proper to rise and inspect the 
sample. It was natural that every other defender of the rights of the pub- 
lic investor should do the same; and they one and all examined it very 
closely, made much of it, patted it gently, and seemed quite glad to make 
its acquaintance, as indeed they were, for its presence was, at least, a 
tangible proof that it had come from somewhere, and had been hewn 
out of something, and may as well have come from South Africa as 
anywhere else. As Mr. Flaire had been the first to inspect the sample, 
so he was the first to express an opinion concerning it. Standing at a 
little distance from the block, and looking at it with an air of doubt, he 
remarked, with modesty and some hesitation, that it was not very bright. 

This gave Mr. Alister an opportunity, of which he took full advantage, 
discoursing of pyrites and sulphur and arsenic with great volubility, and 
declaring that the sample, though not actually metallic in appearance, 
was the richest ore that had been put on the market. He also explained, 
for Mr. Flaire’s benefit, that it was not a coal-scuttle, nor a frying-pan 
yet, and therefore was not as amenable to sand and elbow grease as he 
hoped, by their energies, the entire mountain would be in course of time. 
Of course they all said they hoped so too, and were very glad Mr. Alister, 
with his practical knowledge, was among them to assist in bringing that 
result about. 

The marquis, who looked at the ore with a passionate desire to un- 
derstand all about it, listened to Mr. Alister’s disquisition with great 
respect, and felt in a measure comforted by his discourse. Mr. Gowcher 
eyed him the while with a patronizing air, and the general lent the pro- 
ceeding his formal approval by looking on. Mindful of Delfoy’s in- 
junction to restrain the German baron from exhibiting an excess of zeal, 
the discreet Huckle showed his interest in the sample by edging himself 
in between the baron and the others. The vendor was engaged in the 
rear by Mr. Trip, his solicitor, who was explaining to him what he pro- 
posed to say in his behalf ; and as Mr. Shad had no more idea what to 
say for himself than the marquis had, he also felt much comforted by 
having a few ideas provided for him. The stock-broker looked on as if 
he supposed the inspection was necessary, and had to be endured ; but 
the gallant captain, who hoped to be secretary, seemed to be desperately 
in earnest about the business, and no doubt felt the eyes of the rest of 
the company were upon him, as his were unquestionably upon them. 


, THE ARISTOCRACY IN THE CITY 


151 


As soon as the company had resumed their respective seats, Mr. Trip, 
I incited by the more astute Huckle, who said nothing, explained that his 
i client was quite prepared to submit .samples from any part of the prop- 
erty for analysis, and the property itself to inspection and survey. To 
save time and trouble he had already provided himself with the analyses 
of the sample before them, by an analyst of great public reputation, a 
Fellow of the Royal Society, and a mining expert. This report showed 
great richness — between 70 and 90 per cent, of pure copper; and he be- 
1 lieved Mr. Huckle would advise them that their obligation would consist 
in getting proper advice from experts on this and kindred matters. 

“ Ah !” exclaimed the chairman, “ yes. We’re not mining engineers 
' and assayers, are we? What do you say, Mr. Huckle?” 

Mr. Huckle had no hesitation in saying they were not, and further ex- 
pressed the opinion that no one expected them to have any special knowl- 
: edge about anything. Mr, Howler gave point and substance to this legal 
I deliverance by assuming an air of critical suspicion, and informing Mr. 
Trip that he would be expected to furnish reports from accredited sur- 
veyors, mining engineers, and other experts, on whose judgment the pro- 
I moters would be justified in relying. 

i “Then you’ll do that, Mr. Trip,” said the general, decidedly. “So 
I that’s settled. Now, Mr. Howler, what are the arrangements?” 

' ^ There was a hush of expectation at this, because everybody had great 

i regard for the general’s keen scent for plunder; and as it was thoroughly 
well understood that none of those present, from the vendor and chair- 
man down to the German baron, had any intention of subscribing a penny 
piece towards working this most valuable mine, it was necessary to know 
first who would subscribe, and secondly, what the assembled company 
would make out of the transaction by looking on. Being openly chal- 
lenged, Mr. Howler remarked in quite a casual manner that a matter of 
£20,000 or £30,000 would be set apart out of the purchase price for 
what he euphemistically described as the necessary preliminaries, and 
that perhaps the best course would be for the chairman and Mr. Alister 
to be nominated a committee to arrange the details with him and the 
vendor. 

This was applauded as a prudent measure, for there is nothing so highly 
approved on general principles by all managers, whether individual or 
corporate, from a parish vestry to an imperial government, than to shunt 
responsibility onto somebody else. Moreover, Mr. Septimus Howler, with 
great tact and delicacy, reserved until this moment the additional induce- 
ment for referring matters of detail to a small committee the important 
fact that in the course of a few days he hoped to have completed negoti- 
ations, only commenced within the last twelve hours, but most favorably 
entertained, which would result in an important member of the Govern- 
ment joining their board before they actually applied to the public, This 


152 


THE VEILED HAND 


impressive statement was received with hushed enthusiasm, and a general 
murmur approved the reticence of the stock-broker when he said he pre- 
ferred not to mention the name of the distinguished person he referred 
to, and merely wished the committee to have power to authorize him to 
complete* the negotiations. 

The Great Coradell thus emerged from the embryonic state under the 
guidance of the two solicitors who had preserved a discreet silence, ex- 
cept to make obvious remarks of no consequence, and the meeting ad- 
journed for twenty-four hours, having settled everything and committed 
itself to nothing, in the most approved form of joint-stock enterprise. 


Chapter XXV 


THE COUNTESS OF BOLORE VERY MUCH AT HOME 

The government of a people used to be an affair of the sword ; in 

i later times it has become a conflict of the mind, a war in intellect, which 
' sounds vastly better than “ an affair of the sword.” But while “ the 

mind” and “the intellect” are popularly associated with all that is dig- 
nified and great in humanity, they comprehend also the meaner impulses 
of cunning and cupidity ; and since these frequently provide the motives 
of aspiring politicians, and give rise to deception, and passing by on the 
other side, and generally to having recourse to the by-ways of the chil- 
dren of darkness, under cover of the cloak of honor, the sword comes 
out rather bright in comparison. The battle-axe and the claymore are 
ugly weapons, and blood is not agreeable to contemplate as a factor in 
politics; but physical courage in the matter of cold steel is, after all, 

1 not a bad virtue to cultivate, and is altogether preferable to the encourage- 
j! ment of the arts of dissimulation, colloquially known as dodging and bilk- 

ii ing, which form so large a portion of the political methods of to-day. 

I The Right Honorable Peter Finnessmore was an active politician. 
There was nothing he did not know, nothing he would not undertake, and 
nothing he would not do or risk in the achievement of a party move; 
and nothing also calculated to annoy his party, the doing of which he 
would not have entertained with a free and open mind, if that annoyance 
would have contributed to his personal advancement. For he was a 
i man of principle, and he professed patriotism. 

Finnessmore was a bachelor, aged forty-seven, an active and energetic 
man, with red hair, thin at the top, parted in the middle and bushy at 
' the sides, with bushy eyebrows, a bushy mustache, thick lips, and a shaven 
i chin. He had an inclination to a white hat and light tweeds. He was 
I generally the first white hat to blossom in the House of Commons, and 
' where he could not wear tweeds he contrived a gray frock-coat of material 
j approved by the public voice. 

I He lived with his widowed sister, the Countess of Bolore, who was 
; not unlike him in disposition, but had been more successful in her diplo- 
macy, as she had become a countess and a widow. She had an only 
child, the Lady Alice Joycey, the heiress of her father’s estates, in strict 
settlement, who was pretty, sensible, and accomplished, and therefore, 
despite the extinction of the peerage, had many admirers in this her sec- 


154 


THE VEILED HAND 


ond season. The Right Honorable Peter Finnessmore had views con. 
cerning the future of his niece. 

Bolore House was a centre of political intrigue, enshrouded and inter- 
woven with the mazy glamour of the social gathering and the various ex- 
travagances of fashion. The countess was an excitable, restless creature, 
with red hair, a pink complexion, and a piercing eye that no person would 
suppose ever closed, even in sleep. She was impatient at reverses, but 
fretful only when she had nothing difficult of accomplishment on hand. 
She was wealthy, for the earl had been generous; and her brother, who- 
was poor, managed her property — an arrangement that opened up a large 
field of enterprise for the Right Honorable Peter, associated with a de- 
lightful absence of dangerous responsibility. 

Finnessmore had become, by dint of much scheming and not a little 
inferential threatening, sworn in one of her Majesty’s most honorable 
Privy Council, and an under Secretary of State. This having been 
achieved, and the honors having been worn for some time, and worn 
threadbare, he proposed to himself to become a principal Secretary and 
Cabinet Minister; and the question he asked himself, morning, noon, and 
night, was, on what principle this distinction was denied him, when a 
similar one had been conferred upon Torchleigh, a thoroughly inexperi- 
enced and uninfluential person, and had been actually forced upon Machim 
(who had never been heard of a year before), to the great astonishment 
of the political world and the chagrin of every subordinate minister? It 
was this important topic that had brought Finnessmore up to his sister’s 
boudoir one morning about 11 o’clock before going to his office. Some- 
thing had to be done to stir somebody up, and the Right Honorable 
Peter had got an idea. 

The countess, it must be stated, was contemplating at this time a gar- 
den-party in the gardens of Bolore House, and had supplemented the 
arrangements of her gardener by the construction of temporary bowers 
formed of tropical and subtropical plants in great variety all about the 
grounds, so as to give the idea that the company was assembled on an 
island in the South Seas instead of in a commonplace London garden ; 
but also designed to impress society with the fact that it was the custom 
of the countess not to do things like other people, which was perhaps a 
far more powerful motive than any other. 

Finnessmore was desirous of taking advantage of this project, and re- 
solved that by means of his sister’s assembly Bowdler should be got at. 
The countess, however, had certain ambitions of her own of a special 
nature apart from the ordinary desire which she shared, in common with 
certain eminent retailers of soap or pills, of keeping her name before the 
public, and these ambitions were wholly inconsistent with any trafficking 
or negotiation with the notorious Bowdler. She never for a moment 
supposed that the anxiety of the Right Honorable Peter to examine and 


THE COUNTESS OF BOLORE VERY MUCH AT HOME 


155 


comment upon her list of invitations had any other basis than fraternal 
love. The Right Honorable Peter, on the other hand, never allowed his 
mind to wander from the absorbing hope that he would get Bowdler in- 
vited. He accordingly pursued the task with great art and circumspec- 
tion, and with rare generalship kept his sister in entire ignorance of his 
chief purpose in furthering the garden-party. 

It was to be a great gathering, including royal, illustrious, and right 
honorable personages at the top, and public entertainers at the bottom. 
It was not to be a political gathering, that was certain — otherwise the 
prince could not come ; but it was to fulfil a political purpose — otherwise 
it would be useless to arrange it. To show that it was not the product 
of chagrin, Torchleigh and Machim were to be asked ; and to put out of 
question any surmise that it was a party affair, a reputed journalist, who, 
it was whispered, had attacked the Government, was already on the list. 
To give it an artistic flavor, four Royal Academicians were to be invited, 
and the drama would have an opportunity of being represented by a tra- 
gedian, a low comedian, and a walking -gentleman — the last with aris- 
tocratic connections of unquestionable status. But in order to give the 
gathering a truly society flavor. Lady Bolore had secured the promise 
from a dear friend of hers that her party should have the distinguished 
honor of the first appearance of Sylvanus Bulley, the great explorer, who 
would bring with him two others — a reformed cannibal, who had been 
seen to eat a missionary, and a backwoodsman, who was known to have 
shot fourteen men in a single afternoon. Obviously, in these circum- 
stances, the political element was subordinate. 

.This was the foundation on which Finnessmore built his hopes of get- 
ting his sister to invite Bowdler, who had become a terrible fellow in poli- 
tics since he had dined with Chippering at Queen Anne’s Gate, and in 
one way and another had exacted a deal of homage from those who are 
usually associated with the idea of exacting homage from other people ; 
but Bowdler commanded votes, and votes in these days comprehended 
everything. 

Bowdler did not, perhaps, clearly understand it, but he was a perfect 
autocrat in his way — he not only ruled party politicians but ordered his 
own millions in quite a Roman emperor style, and did it all by talk. 
He drew awful pictures of their down-trodden condition and their mean 
spirits, and exhibited by comparison what a high-souled, patriotic sort of 
person he was ; and how, if they did as he told them, they should have 
their bread buttered on both sides, and their children should bathe in 
treacle. It was rather odd, too, that his millions’ seemed to like being 
sneered at by him, and did pretty much as he told them to. Bowdler 
thus became a great political force, and all those who were on the look- 
out for ’political fulcrums made obeisance to him and generally grovelled 
before him. 


THE VEILED HAND 


156 

But Finnessmore had to admit that nothing the countess could do 
would assist him unless he could also procure the assistance of Delfoy, 
who by some legerdemain had worked upon Bowdler and instilled a 
sentiment of amiable condescension into his soul. Delfoy was no friend 
to Finnessmore ; he was treading too closely on his heels in the way of 
making a position ; and would certainly not have been put on the count- 
ess’s list if Finnessmore had seen his way to do without him at this im- 
portant juncture. The countess had no objection to Delfoy, not in the 
least. She thought him a charming man, with the most insinuating 
manners, and incapable of any action that would either detract from his 
own dignity or compromise his friends — in fact, in the estimation of 
Lady Bolore, Colonel Delfoy was perfect ; but the mere mention of the 
name of Bowdler in relation to her party awakened the strongest aver- 
sion. 

“My dear Peter,” she exclaimed, “what can you be thinking of? 
Bowdler, that abominable person ! why, it’s impossible.” 

“ Well, but ray dear Carry,” expostulated Finnessmore, “ the man 
Bowdler is a power. He’s supposed to belong to the other side, because 
of his extreme opinions ; but I know better. He’s open to conviction. 
He’s to be handled, and I want to handle him. Lots of them have tried 
without success, and there’ll be enormous credit attached to the handling 
of Bowdler — enormous.” 

Finnessmore seemed to be much impressed with the magnitude of the 
undertaking he projected. He gasped as he uttered the word “ enor- 
mous” as if human reason failed to comprehend the prodigious value of 
handling Bowdler. 

The countess tapped on her writing-table with her pencil during her 
brother’s declaration, and then remarked with unusual solemnity, 

“ No doubt, Peter, but there are some other considerations to be taken 
into account besides the political in settling my parties. I expect the 
Duchess of Cowdry.” 

This was said with decision, with triumph, and with evident expecta- 
tion that it would be conclusive, for the Duchess of Cowdry had been 
long angled for, but had never been caught. 

Lady Bolore had never yet secured representatives of the old nobility 
at her parties. They would receive her, and call on her; she might ap- 
pear at their parties and accept their gracious patronage ; but to distin- 
guish her by actual presence at a miscellaneous gathering was more than 
any reasonable person could expect from a duchess. A royal personage 
might so condescend, because a royal personage naturally sanctified the 
'surrounding conditions; but if the duchesses did not maintain the em- 
brasure of an exclusive discrimination what was to become of society ? 

Finnessmore knew all this, and quite appreciated the triumph com- 
prised in his sister’s hope ; and, as he wondered, with some trepidation, 


THE COUNTESS OF BOLORE VERY MUCH AT HOME 157 

how this expected triumph had been achieved, she quietly informed him. 
The duchess had called ; there was a secretaryship to a royal commission 
associated with Finnessmore’s department to be filled up ; the duchess 
expected Finnessmore to get the appointment for her nominee; and 
Finnessmore would have to comply. My Lady Bolore had assured the 
duchess that Finnessmore would do all in his power, and the duchess 
had assured my Lady Bolore that if Finnessmore did all in his power 
nothing more was needed. My Lady Bolore hereupon artfully intruded 
mention of her garden-party, and the expected presence of the prince 
and the Prime-minister, thought she might promise to have the matter 
settled by the day in question, and suggested it would be so very nice to 
communicate that the matter was settled on that very agreeable occasion, 
if the duchess would honor her ; and the duchess felt that, although the 
price was high, it must be paid. Consequently, in the opinion of Lady 
Bolore, only two things had to be considered : the securing of the ap- 
pointment and the regulation of the invitation list to conciliate the preju- 
dices of the duchess. This was a serious blow to Finnessmore, but he 
bore up bravely, and although he knew the secretaryship had been already 
disposed of in another direction, he declared that the appointment was 
at the command of the duchess, and reverted to the Bowdler question as 
if the name of the agitator had never been mentioned before. 

“ But, my dear Peter, it’s impossible to ask Bowdler here with the 
duchess,” exclaimed his sister. “Surely you understand that?” 

“ Well, I can’t say I do,” said Finnessmore. “ Bowdler’s a member, 
and he’s surely as good as Bulley’s cannibal.” 

“ Not at all,” said the countess. “ Mr. Bulley is the greatest novelty 
in society, and his cannibal is perfect. They say he’s quite presentable.” 

“ Well, you’ll allow that if the prince will meet Bowdler the duchess 
will not object?” 

“ I’ll allow no such thing, and you know the cases are entirely dif- 
ferent.” 

“But, my dear sister,” pleaded Finnessmore, “would you have me 
sacrifice the glorious opportunity of handling Bowdler? Just think of it.” 

“ Why can’t you make yourself agreeable to him at some men’s 
place?” she asked. “ A club, for instance.” 

“ Wouldn’t do,” said Finnessmore, shaking his head hopelessly. “No- 
body would know it ; and it must be known to be of any use. Besides, 
I can’t ask the Prime-minister to meet Bowdler at a club. The thing 
must be done casually, accidentally, and with the least possible irritation ; 
and thafs what I’m about. Why, if this had been done a month ago 
I’m sure I should have had Machim’s place. They couldn’t have passed 
me over.” 

There was a silence, and finding it embarrassing, Finnessmore ex- 
claimed, by way of filling in the picture. 


158 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ The thing that troubles me is the colossal stupidity of the Prime- 
minister, who doesn’t see the tremendous mistakes he is making by these 
recent appointments. If they are repeated, what’s to become of the 
country ?” 

It wasn’t anxiety about the fate of the country that induced the count- 
ess to give five minutes’ consideration to the question of adding the 
name of an objectionable member of Parliament to her list. It was a 
question of Peter’s interests as opposed to the sentiments of the duchess. 
But the notion of handling Bowdler had acquired too strong a hold on 
Finnessmore to permit him to give it up. He continued to urge the 
point, and finally, in a fit of desperation, his sister announced her assent 
by the inquiry, 

“ How do you spell the creature’s name ?” 

The card was written with every sign of vexation, and when it was 
handed to Finnessmore he rubbed his nose with it as be remarked that 
he would send it through Delfoy. 

“Send it how you Uke,” said his sister. “I’ve done with it, and am 
very much vexed. I shall have to write to the duchess and tell her, and 
then she won’t come.” 

The fact was that it had come to be bruited about that the countess 
had “ such queer people ” at her assemblies ; and this was a very serious 
matter for the countess, because in the estimation of the unquestionable 
the countess was considered “ queer” herself in the matter of origin, and 
was allowed to be admissible only because she was a countess. She knew 
this, and the knowledge was a great trouble to her, a continual check 
upon the brilliance of her imagination, and prevented the commission of 
many a social vagary that would have afforded unusual delight to her 
friends had she only dared to perpetrate it. And here she was saddled 
with “ the horrid Bowdler ” at this most critical time. 

But there was more trouble brewing. 

“Are there any newspaper people coming?” Finnessmore asked, ap- 
parently with perfect indifference. 

He approached the subject warily, for there had been arguments before 
on the same topic. 

The countess winced. The lady correspondent of The Toilette^ as she 
described herself, had been seen at the countess’s gatherings — a gaunt 
person with spectacles and a note-book, who peered up into people’s faces 
and asked their names. People had pretended to be shocked at this, and 
perhaps some of them were, but the majority gave their names, and had 
the infinite satisfaction of seeing their costume described in The Toilette 
newspaper, which devoted itself largely to “ At Homes,” and recorded 
the gossip of the tea-tables in quite a sprightly manner. 

The countess thought it odd that Finnessmore should trouble himself 
about a matter of such small moment, and said the woman was quite 


THE COUNTESS OF BOLORE VERY MUCH AT HOME 


159 


harmless ; to which Finnessmore responded that possibly she was, but that 
he objected to the note-book, and asked why she could not go about her 
business like Squarely, the reporter of The Frivol^ who never showed his 
trade though he did presume somewhat, and was inclined to force his 
company on those who would prefer to be without it. 

“ I shall not ask hirriy' said the countess, with decision. 

“ Then how will you get a paragraph in The Frivol V asked Finness- 
more in amazement. 

“Go without.” 

“ Oh no, you won’t,” said Finnessmore. “ There will be a paragraph, 
and it will depend upon Squarely as to whether it will be agreeable or 
disagreeable ; and Squarely will regulate his views by the way in which 
you treat him.” 

Finnessmore said this looking out of window,*as if he had been re- 
marking upon the state of the weather or the crops. ' He regarded 
Squarely as in the category of the east wind, an unexpected shower, or a 
casual blight — as something disagreeable, but to be borne ; and better 
than the east wind in one respect, the tempering of it was in one’s own 
hands. 

“ But Squarely is a most improper person I’m told,” exclaimed the 
countess. “I don’t know what he’s done, but they say he’s dread- 
ful.” 

“So he is, my dear, but he goes everywhere, and-why shouldn’t he 
come here, when he can make himself very disagreeable if we deny 
him?” 

The argument was conclusive. Squarely was invited, and so were half 
a dozen others, who were bidden for no other reason than because they 
were objectionable and might make themselves particularly so if left out 
on this occasion. 

“And now, my dear, where do you propose to dine to-night?” asked 
Finnessmore, who had yet another project. 

“ At home,” said his sister. 

“Would you object to accompany me to the Heritages’?” he 
asked. 

Finnessmore had had a request from Heritage, who was very inflnentiaU 
in the City, to launch his step-son Philip into the political world. Philip 
was just home from Oxford, at the age of twenty-three, full of honors, 
and eager for distinction in the greater world. His amiable step-father 
had thought of Finnessmore, and Finnessmore had no objection to an 
additional private secretary of brilliant university attainments, and with 
a valuable City connection; for Finnessmore’s whole life had been de- 
voted to the making of interest. So Finnessmore would take the count- 
ess to dine at the Heritages’, enfamille with Lady Alice, and they would 
together inspect the proposed new private secretary. 


160 


THE VEILED HAND 


All this was explained to the countess, with appropriate embellish- 
ment and fanciful adornment associated with stocks and shares and 
“good things” in the City; and as the countess thought the Heritages 
nice people, especially Mrs. Heritage, she agreed to change her plans 
and dine in Cavendish Square. 


Chapter XXVI 
DOMESTICITY 

There is nothing about which a man of small means, or of no means 
at all, is more certain than that he would make the best possible use of 
great wealth if he had it; and there is not a man living but has some 
fault to find with the way other people spend their money, and who 
does not assert, with a confidence that admits of no qualification, that 
he could administer vast revenues to greater advantage to the State, and 
with more credit to himself, than any other person under the sun. It 
was therefore a source of constant amazement to Morris Heritage’s 
friends and acquaintances, and a subject for special animadversion with 
many of them, that he kept so moderate an establishment and led a life 
of so little diversity. His great wealth was acknowledged on all hands. 
His fiat in the City was absolute — even his partners, older men than 
himself, bowed to the strength of his accumulations and the soundness 
of his judgment — yet his tastes remained simple, and his chief ambition 
was the sound training of his adopted children and the contemplation of 
the natural development of their dispositions. 

Other men of no birth, less wealth, and grosser tastes, emerged from 
the squalid processes of City muckraking and dazzled the populace by 
scattering tinsel gewgaws in their faces. These had for their reward 
the homage of the gaping millions, and in their train came trooping 
impecunious politicians, the dregs of the Court, and every phase of the 
later nineteenth century greed, which specially exhibited itself in an ab- 
sorbing desire to reap without sowing, and to gather without even put- 
ting the hand to the sickle, to say nothing of the plough. 

Heritage, perhaps, erred in the direction of exclusiveness and shrink- 
ing from notoriety and blazoning, and it nlight be said that he did not 
actually fill his station ; but then his nature had been strained in the 
direction of repression, and he shrank with a sense of shame from any 
act which seemed to speak boastfully of his wealth. So it had come to 
be said that he was unsympathetic, proud, and even mean, for his fail- 
ings were variously described, according to the disposition of the censor. 
That he was contented, and that those he had about him were happy, 
did not count. Morris Heritage was rich. Why, then, did he live in 
Cavendish Square instead of in closer proximity to the most distin- 
guished quarters of the highest possible social surroundings? It was 
11 


162 


THE VEILED HAND 


true he chose the house because he liked it, and because its position was 
convenient and agreeable to him personally and to those about him 5 
but these considerations should not count in the estimation of those 
who order their daily life and surroundings by the imperious laws of 
fashion, and the still more commanding influence of what other people 
may think of them and their doings ; and seeing that these other people 
regard this as the golden era, in the sense that nothing is good, nothing 
desirable, nothing virtuous, and nothing should be done unless it is 
costly, Morris Heritage was wrong to live on the other side of Oxford 
Street when he had the means to live in one of the costliest and most 
coveted houses in all London ; and he was wrong to live a domesticated 
life and refrain from participating in the dazzling hypocrisies of con- 
ventional pastime ; he was especially wrong to permit his step-daughters, 
who now bore his name, to revel in the glories of an amateur studio, and 
to be painters and sculptors, to the neglect of all the commonplace ac- 
complishments, and to fit up a music-room and give family concerts of 
a unique character instead of wholly devoting their energies to the man- 
ner in which they should disport themselves in places of fashionable 
resort after the manner of the species as constituted by the Procrustes 
of the hour. 

But the family, as it had grown up in this happy-go-lucky style, was 
very happy, indeed, working and endeavoring — sometimes even striving 
with the self-denial of genius — without regard to custom or accepted 
patterns of social demeanor ; and, setting aside only a few outbreaks of 
temper on the part of Dora — whose disposition, in its impetuous variety, 
seemed something foreign to the Heritage household — they managed to 
achieve that contentment which is seldom attained to by any of the 
many thousands of anxious souls who have been provided, by accident 
or reward, with a superabundance of this world’s goods, but without the 
proper complement of brains to use them. 

It was a great event in the family history that Philip, now a Heritage 
like the rest, had returned from Oxford eager for the great work of life, 
and ready, upon his step-father’s advice, to do precisely that class of 
thing that Heritage felt himself unable to undertake. Philip was to 
devote himself to the State ; he was to enter upon politics as a pro- 
fession ; he was to begin by acting as a private secretary, and Mr. Fin- 
nessmore was to be his mentor, which showed exactly how much 
Morris Heritage knew of politics and the political world. 

Thus it came to pass that Philip arrived home, on the afternoon of 
the day the Right Honorable Peter had settled the various important 
questions connected with the garden-party, in the highest possible 
spirits ; for, contrary to the Right Honorable Peter’s expectation, Philip 
had called on him about noon to make himself known in a more private 
and formal manner than his mother’s drawing-room or dinner -table 


DOMESTICITY 163 

would permit ; and he burst into his mother’s boudoir about four o’clock 
to tell her all about his visit and what came of it. 

“ Oh, mother I” he cried, clapping his hands, “ I’ve a glorious prospect 
before me. I see it all in magnificent array, and feel quite inspired.” 

She looked up from her writing-table, and smiled at his enthusiasm, 
and then he kissed her tenderly and drew a long sigh, as if his concep- 
tion of the magnificent prospect were too big for words ; but breaking 
out again, he cried, 

“ I’ve been to the House, mother, and seen it at work. There was a 
grand fluster going on about something I didn’t quite understand — a 
matter of hondr and a personal explanation. But the Speaker, mother ! 
I should like to be the Speaker. He’s the first Commoner!” 

With this, which was uttered in low and awe -inspired tones, he 
drew a stool near his mother, and sitting down upon it, he put his 
elbows on her knee and began to tell her all about his visit, from be- 
ginning to end, just as he would have told her of some boyish incident^ 
at school ; for although at this tinie he was three-and-twenty years of 
age, and full of a ripening ambition, he was still a little boy to his moth- 
er when alone with her, and laid his heart quite bare to her, even to his 
follies and regrets. She was indeed a mirror to his inner thoughts, and 
in these tender confidences he betrayed himself to himself, and so got 
glimpses of thoughts and feelings within his inmost heart that but for 
these passages would never have been revealed to him ; and so, without 
the sharp reflection of the mother’s character to mark them out in con- 
trast, and expose them in measured line and truth, they would never 
have been presented to him for encouragement or correction as his 
appreciation might suggest. 

“ You see, mother,” said he, “ father thought it better I should make 
a formal call, and I went down just about twelve, but found Mr. Finness- 
more was engaged. When his business was ended, and I was shown 
into his room, he asked me, as it was late, to walk down to the House 
with him. Wasn’t that nice of him ? It was so free, and put me quite 
at my ease ; and I think, mother, he’s a capital fellow, and oh, so en- 
gaging.” 

There was some indication on Muriel’s face of a reserve of doubt. 
She smiled, she was sympathetic, she encouraged her boy to continue 
his story ; but she was clearly anxious beyond the limits of a mother’s 
caution, and showed more concern than should, in common phrase, be- 
cloud a mother’s hope. 

Those who may have followed her story through all its perilous pas- 
sages — more perilous and more fraught with perilous endings than her 
imagination even pictured for a single moment — will have seen that any 
step she may have taken, any deception that may have been practised 
upon her, and whatever she may have done or assented to upon the 


164 


THE VEILED HAND 


road, her thoughts were not of self ; and hitherto, although she had 
suffered much, her fears were always fears of danger for her boy. 

. This step of Philip’s was none of her seeking. How much better 
would it have been, how earnestly had she prayed that the thoughts of 
her boy should tend to channels far removed from those in which she 
knew another strode with sinister intent, and who might chance at any 
time to cross his path, and^blight the blossoms in the hedge-row, and 
blacken, as with a lightning stroke, the distant flowers that he hoped to 
pluck. A quiet country life, a life of travel, or a deeply studious life 
had been her hope, and often had she let fall a word or two to set the 
current of her husband’s thoughts in such and such a line ; but nothing 
came of it, for craft and cunning had no part with her ; and, as the 
lines drew nearer to the point she feared to think upon, the attrition 
of her mind increased, and 'gave new force to what had always been 
the constant pain engendered by the past. And though in her waking 
thoughts the life and movement of the hour — so wholly satisfying her 
utmost hopes for the happiness of those about her — mellowed the past, 
and battered down the sharper edges of those fearful memories, they 
still pursued her in her dreams, and sometimes made the silent hours of 
the night a time of terror. 

Still there was no thought, bred of this agony, of the terrible results 
to herself and her husband likely to follow possible discovery. So far 
as she and Heritage were concerned, if the consequences of open avowal 
had ever clearly impressed themselves upon her mind, they were now 
almost forgotten, and in contemplation of the larger concern were quite 
ignored. The resolution taken in the upper room in Torrington Square 
had become a dim remembrance, and its possible consequence a most 
remote and shadowy prospect, to be repressed resolutely in all waking 
moments, and secretly endured only in sleep ; for in sleep it came un- 
bidden and unrestrained in phantom shapes, and with horrible unde- 
cipherable threatenings. These visitations continued to be hidden even 
from herself, but the future of Philip was a subject of continuous and 
avowed solicitude. The dangers that might beset him assumed every 
possible shape that an overwrought fancy could suggest; and every 
change of circumstance on his part kindled new alarms in the breast of 
the devoted mother. Thus, in the very hour of his enthusiasm, and on 
the eve of this great and most desirable step in life, she was alarmed for 
her boy’s future. 

“You would have been pleased if you had seen me,” he said, “going 
down Parliament Street with Mr. Finnessmore. He knows so many 
people, and tells you all about them as they come along, and then the 
policemen stop the traffic to let you pass the crossing. I felt quite 
elated. And then in the House,” he continued, as his mother smiled, 
suppressing her fears, “ the sight is very impressive, not so much from 


DOMESTICITY 


166 


what one actually sees, but from the associations it awakens. I had not 
much time for reflection, however, for there was a terrible shindy going 
on. I couldn’t follow the matter in its detail, the action of the House 
was so unfamiliar and its forms so novel ; but from what Mr. Finnessmore 
told me I understood it was a personal matter, in which a member had 
accused a Mr. Delfoy of having used his oflfice as member of a commit- 
tee for advancing some purpose of his own. The attack was made by 
a fat man, ngt over-clean, with rumpled shirt-front, and wearing a frock- 
coat two sizes too large for him, big as he was. He affected an heroic 
manner and a superior virtue ; and do you know, mother, Mr. Fi’nness- 
more said it was more than likely he had himself done the thing he 
charged this Mr. Delfoy with, he was so supernaturally earnest and in- 
dignant,” and Philip laughed at the idea, for although he never for a 
moment thought it could be true, he was delighted with the whimsicality 
of the suggestion, and thought a great deal of Finnessmore for having 
said what he felt to be a good and supposed to be an entirely original 
thing. 

The mention of the name of Delfoy in this accidental connection sent 
a spasm through MurieFs breast. She exhibited no emotion, and made 
no betrayal of the shock she had received by the sprightly recital of her 
boy’s first parliamentary experience. She restrained herself from any 
betrayal of her feelings only because the danger was constantly present 
to her mind, and singular as the coincidence was she accepted the inci- 
dent with the submission of a fatalist, as the natural and inevitable conse- 
quence of the past, and as a warning. 

“ Mr. Delfoy’s manner,” he went on, “ was a great contrast to that of 
his accuser. He was calm and incisive, cruelly cold, almost malignant, 
and his poor, excited, emotional opponent was reduced to utter prostra- 
tion.” 

The mother listened with eager attention as the boy went on, now 
walking the room with excitement as he recalled the stirring incident, 
and acting the manner of the belligerents with fervid gesticulation or 
cynical contempt as the characters required. When in the midst of a 
piece of ardent declamation that he had retained with surprising accu- 
racy, the door opened and his elder sister appeared, wearing a brown- 
holland apron with sleeves and with a skirt to her heels, all smeared 
with clay, and with her fair hair skewered in a tousley knot on the top 
of her head, while to add to her eccentricity she rubbed her nose with a 
lace-bordered pocket-handkerchief. 

“ I want you,” she said, “ in the back. I’m waiting for you.” 

“ In the back ” was Dora’s studio, an annex with a top-light built out 
from the offices, and now furnished with all the trappings of a sculptor’s 
atelier. The floor, the platform, and the shelves bore testimony to the 
bounty of her step-father and her own zeal. Castings of the busts of 


166 


THE VEILED HAND 


Greek philosophers and copies of basso-relievo from Athenian mauso- 
leums were scattered about indiscriminately, with a miscellaneous collec- 
tion of arms and legs, including a cast of her own foot and another of 
Ethel’s hand, with copies of them modelled in clay ; and all over the 
walls there were casts from clay modellings of Ethel’s ear, Ethel s nose, 
and Ethel’s hands in every variety of position, so that any sympathetic 
statistician might have calculated the number of hours of patient suffer- 
ing Ethel had endured to gratify the commands of her sister ; but now 
Philip was to be the subject, if Philip would. 

Philip, however, was too much engrossed with his subject even to ap- 
prehend the wishes of his sister ; he put her and her request aside with a 
joke about Mrs. Plasterer, and a perfect maelstrom seethed and bubbled 
behind Dora’s passionate eyes and the laced pocket-handkerchief scourg- 
ing her nose. She was unused to indifference, just as Philip was uncon- 
scious of offence. She positively lowered at her admirable brother with 
a wrath that was incapable of expression, and, being baffled, beat itself 
to death from sheer incapacity on her part to understand how the dis- 
tressing circumstance could arise of Dora being thwarted. The fact ap- 
palled her, and she turned scowling on Ethel, who came into the room 
at this moment with her composed look of passive indifference to mael- 
stroms and Dora generally. Ethel was accustomed to her tantrums. 

“You should have seen how perfectly this Mr. Delfoy put the man 
down,” continued the unconscious Philip, oblivious alike of the sister’s 
anger and the mother’s alarm. “ It was a matter of surgery ; he used 
the knife without a quiver — cut deep and long, and then, instead of an 
emollient, he poured vitriol in the wound, and smiled ! His callousness 
was marvellous. At the finish — feeling, I suppose, he had succeeded in 
putting his accuser in the wrong — he assumed a manner of angry indig- 
nation, and appealing to the Speaker, seemed to be tearing his victim 
limb from limb, and then, flinging the fragments on the floor, to spit 
upon them. It was stupendous ! I shall never forget it ; and although 
I could never like the man, I cannot help admiring the striking excel- 
lence of his art.” 

“ I wish I had been there,” said Dora, sitting on a low stool and nurs- 
ing her chin on the cushion of the grimy pocket-handkerchief. There was 
something in the scene as described by her brother that satisfied the 
bitterness, of her nature ; and she took refuge from the anger with which 
her brother’s indifference had inspired her to revel in the contempla- 
tion of a commanding rancor that gratified her imagination. 

“ What sort of a man is this Mr. Delfoy ?” she asked. “ Is he a big 
man, and does he looh cruel ?” 

“No,” said Philip, laughing, “he’s not a big man, and looks com- 
placent rather than cruel, except when he is engaged in denunciation. 
Then his appearance is implacable ; and he has, oh, such a cruel eye !” 


DOMESTICITY 


“Ah,” said Dora, with a glow of satisfaction, “it must have been 
grand to see him. I should have been inclined to scream with delight.” 

“ Oh, Dora, how can you say so ?” asked Ethel, who had been watch- 
ing her mother during this colloquy, and had noticed the look of horror 
that passed over her face at Dora’s question. She seemed paralyzed 
with terror, and looked from one to the other with speechless dread. 
Dora laughed as she said, 

“ You don’t understand these things, Ethel. I adore strength — even 
the cruelty of strength — and I despise weakness and the weak.” She 
flung a look of passionate contempt round the room, and did not hesi- 
tate to include even Philip in the deprecating glance. “ I like to hear of 
things that are great and strong and daring. I wish I was a man to dare 
and do like that.” 

She stamped her foot and clinched her hands, and went out with her 
bitterness to work upon the passive clay and mould a demon out of the 
clod she had put up for Philip — to shape a hard and cruel face such as 
her imagination conceived would express the spirit of this man Delfoy, 
whose action Philip had described. So she was appeased, and having 
endowed her model with humorous contortion, she laughed at it, and 
finally, striking at it with a mallet, reduced it to a shapeless mass. 

While this exhaustion of a quite unnecessary development of passion 
was going on, other incidents of a calmer and yet highly emotional char- 
acter were in progress, arising out of this chance conversation about 
Philip’s morning experiences. The departure of Dora, observed in 
silence by all three, provoked Ethel to action of the sympathetic and 
stimulating order. 

“ A cup of tea, mummer, and a little nap, eh ?” she said, with a smile. 
She made no reference to Dora’s outburst, nor thought of construing the 
cause of her mother’s pallor, her silent terror, and suppressed pain. She 
merely suggested the palliative as appropriate to the condition which she 
saw, without reference to the cause, which was unknown to her. Philip 
looked on with some anxiety as Ethel enforced her prescription by tak- 
ing her mother by the arm and gently conducting her to her own room 
— throwing a meaning glance to Philip as she passed through the door- 
way. Philip understood he was to wait, and did so, wondering what 
could have caused the sudden collapse of his mother in circumstances so 
wholly dissociated from her. The situation was so incomprehensible 
that he felt even sympathetic speech would add to the embarrassment 
and the pain she felt, and he looked on in silence. 

“ That’s Dora,” said Ethel, when she returned. “ She often bursts 
upon us like that, and it pains mother. Promise me, Philip, that you 
will watch and do what you can to check her.” 

She put her hands upon his shoulders, and looked up at him plead- 
ingly and yet trustfully, without any undue emotion ; for, like her mother. 


168 


THE VEILED HAND 


she spoke little, and like her mother, too, she waited, waited, waited 
until the revolving passion within and without consumed itself, and then 
the embers could be taken and spread out, and she could pick out from 
among them whatever grains of precious metal lay bruised and crushed 
among the dross. She had no knowledge, nor had Philip, of the true 
cause of this discomfiture of our Muriel. They had no clew. It was im- 
possible they could have traced such hopeless distress to the mere men- 
tion of a name, much less could they have divined a connection between 
the working of her mother’s mind and Dora’s outburst of unrestrained 
passion, or her unqualified admiration of the method of a Member of 
Parliament of whom she had never before heard. 

“ Where is Dora?” asked Philip. 

Ethel nodded her head in the direction of the studio. 

“ In the back, I think,” she said, mysteriously ; “ she always goes there, 
or somewhere where she can be alone, when she’s put out.” 

“ Let’s go and see,” said Philip. 

“ We never do,” said Ethel solemnly, and with eyes of wonder fixed 
upon her desperate brother. “ We leave her alone till she comes out.” 

She spoke as of some strange being whose nature was a mystery to 
be respected, and concerning whom her only duty was to wait upon 
events. 

“Then what am I to do?” asked Philip. “I am to correct her and yet 
not to go to her. You’re a wise one,” he added, putting his arms round 
her shoulders. “ We must go and see her. Come !” 

“No,” said Ethel, shrinking back. “You go; and I say, Philip, ask 
her to be more gentle to our mother. You can ask her.” 

She stood away from him and regarded him solemnly. It was for her 
a solemn moment. She had long dwelt upon the unwelcome vagaries of 
her sister, and wondered why such extravagant wilfulness should be 
thrust at the patient gentleness of her mother. It was her great mystery ; 
but although she brooded wearily over the tangled skein, she had never 
spoken before to any one upon the dreadful subject, and even now the 
appeal had come from her quite unawares. Her gentle spirit had often 
endure'd in silence and with amazement the sudden outbursts ; but she 
stood aside at the torrent of passion, and let it pass unresisted and ap- 
parently unnoticed. She never even knew it pained her. She thought 
only of Dora and of her mother, and felt for them — for Dora because 
the dominant selfishness grew within her, and for her mother because 
her gentle spirit was being everborne and fretted for very fear, for both 
Ethel and her mother knew instinctively what trouble would come to a 
nature that nursed an inveterate and resistless wilfulness. 

“You go, Philip,” said Ethel; “go and talk with her.” 

Philip entered the studio as Dora was reducing the mangled clay to 
something like a human head. 


DOMESTICITY 


169 


“ Ah, you’ve come at last, have you ?” she said, working away at the 
ear of the figure. “ This is not like you yet, Philip,” she added, “ but 
it’s going to be. Why didn’t you come before ?” 

“Busy,” said Philip. 

“ Ah, that’s good,” said Dora, with a knowing shake of the head, a 
glance at her model, and quite a masterful sweep of the hand round the 
clay. “ Always keep busy, eh ? Keeps one out of mischief and free from 
the megrims.” 

The professional manner — conciliatory, patronizing, encouraging — 
were exhibited by the young girl to perfection. The distinguished 
brother who had come to chide was as plastic to her tongue as was the 
clay to her hand. He sat down and resigned himself to the situation. 
He was amused, and felt inclined to laugh at the assumption of superi- 
ority exhibited by the vigorous Dora, but kept his humor to himself. 
The passion of the hour before was gone, and clean forgotten by him, 
along with the pain and anxiety of Ethel. The novelty of the relation- 
ship and Dora’s surroundings, all new to him, were quite suflBcient to 
dissipate more serious reflections and give new direction to a not too 
constant purpose. 

“ Hold up your head, please, a little,” said Dora, standing in an atti- 
tude of authority and gravely studying the sitter’s face. “Suppose,” 
she added, “you turn a little to the right and keep your eye on this 
Apollo. Fix on the tip of his nose.” 

Philip obeyed, and the artist nodded approval. 

“ You must understand, Phil,” she added, “ that the smaller the point 
you look at the more certain are you to retain always the same position.” 

A vigorous pounding of the clay followed this deliverance, and the 
concentration of his eye on the tip of the Apollo’s nose gave Philip 
time to collect his thoughts. He sadly wanted to oblige Ethel and 
secure his mother’s peace, but how was he to open up the subject with 
effect. 

“ May I talk ?” he asked. 

“ Oh yes, by all means, but keep your position,” said Dora, working 
with energy. 

“ Yes, ni keep my position,” said Philip. “ I have my eye right on 
the tip of the Apollo’s nose, and the position is so monotonous that I 
propose to vary the conditions by asking you a question.” 

“Well, what is it?” 

“ Have you any idea why I came in here ?” 

“ To oblige me, of course, and very good of you to do so.” 

“ No,” said Philip, “ that was not the purpose.” 

“Well, it’s the purpose now, and you are obliging me; but please 
don’t look this way just now, as I want to get the turn of your neck. 
Keep your eye on Apollo, that’s a good boy.” 


170 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ I came to talk with you,” said Philip, after a pause. 

“ That’s right. Talk away.” 

“ But I want to talk seriously.” 

“ Not too seriously, I hope,” was the answer, because I can be seri us 
about only one thing at a time.” 

“ I want to talk about the mother.” 

“ Eh ?” said Dora, with a sudden look round. “ That’s not serious, 
Phil ; but if it is, you must wait a bit, because Pra going to measure 
you.” 

With this she approached him with a pair of calipers. Wrenching 
them open, she put one leg on his forehead, took the distance to his 
chin, and marked it on the clay, then took the distance from the same 
place to his nostril, and then to the swe5p of his ear. She marked them 
all with care, and every effort on his part to speak was silenced with an 
air of authority there was no resisting. 

“Now, what about the mother?” she asked, absently, as she worked 
the clay. 

“ She seems unhappy,” said Philip. 

“Think so?” asked Dora, with her head on one side, as she took an 
admiring view of her work. 

“ I’m sure of it.” 

“Ah, you’re sure of it. What a queer chin you’ve got, Phil — quite 
unusual.” 

Was that unconscious indifference or wanton callousness, or was it 
rather that determined pursuit of a purpose which from its absorbing 
character approaches selfishness? Philip was unable to decide, and his 
thoughts reverted to the original subject. 

“Yes,” he said, after a pause, “I am sure of it; and I am sure also 
you could do much to prevent her unhappiness.” 

“ Oh, you are queer,” she answered, still working on the clay. “ Why 
do you say such things ?” 

“Because they are true. Your remarks to-day pained her. She 
seemed to quiver as if your words had pierced her.” 

“ Oh no, I think not,” said Dora, with nonchalance, as she gave a 
prod with her thumb in the eyeball of her figure, and then gouged out a 
too prominent eye. “You’re mistaken, Philip. You don’t understand 
us. Mother and Ethel are always quiet and subdued. I’m always excited 
and violent. I know I am, and I like it. They’re a little bit startled at 
me every now and then ; but it doesn’t matter, Philip. We jog along. 
We’re all very fond of one another, and we never quarrel. Hold your 
head up !” 

Philip obeyed. The Apollo’s nose was becoming decidedly monot- 
onous, still he obeyed, and considered what next he should say, as the 
sculptor continued working at the clay with a dexterity and energy that 


DOMESTICITY 


171 


rather baffled his scheme of reproach. Her complete self-complacency 
weakened his resolution for attack. He doubted, but still he would 
make another effort. 

“ It would not be much trouble, Dora, would it,” he asked, “ to refrain 
from tpaking violent speeches before your mother?” 

“Perhaps not,” she answered; “but there’s the dressing-bell for 
dinner, and the Finnessmores are coming.” 

Philip sighed as she dashed from the studio without another word. 

Obviously the conversation was embarrassing. 


Chapter XXYII 
A PARTY OF EIGHT 

Morris Heritage was a model host. It was not that he had a per- 
fect cuisine and an admirable cellar, the most elegantly furnished table 
and the most unobtrusive service, for all these can be bought with 
money, even to purchasing the skill for selecting and the energy for 
directing these instruments of ornate gastronomy ; but he seemed, with-; 
out an effort, to make all the arrangements his own, and each of his 
guests felt not only safe in his hands but the object of his special re- 
gard, and there was no fuss. 

The party of eight was made up of the Heritage family of five and 
the Finnessmore combination of three, and it was a party of sympathetic 
ambitions. It presented the usual difliculties in the matter of seating 
associated with all parties of an even number whose moieties are also 
even, but in the case of a gathering so resolutely bent on making itself 
agreeable this urgent matter was soon accommodated. Heritage, of 
course, conducted the countess, and Finnessmore Muriel. The Lady 
Alice was of necessity left to Philip ; but the difficulties of seating an 
even number whose moieties were also even, separated him from the 
heiress of the Earl of Bolore, and he found himself next the countess 
and opposite his future chief on the one hand and Lady Alice on the 
other, a commanding position, permitting him to join in conversation 
with all three guests, and, as he felt, subjecting himself at the same time 
to scrutiny and probation. But his anxieties on this account were re- 
duced to small and almost insignificant proportions by the contemplation 
of more absorbing reflections. He discovered that the Lady Alice was a 
paragon of grace and beauty, a sylph, a thing of light and air, a veritable 
Peri, and he rejoiced that he could gaze upon her and dream of possibili- 
ties. The stern eye of Dora, however, was upon him, and he dissembled. 

The Lady Alice was fair. Her skin was of pearly whiteness, save 
where the glow of health bedecked her cheek, and her hair was like the 
flow of virgin silk, as fine in texture and as bright in color. Her face 
was oval, and her large laughing brown eyes never ceased to sparkle and 
reflect her exuberant delight in life. It seemed impossible that her rosy 
lips could ever have been shaped for serious utterances, or that her heart, 
that beat so gently in its gossamer prison, should ever throb to deep 
emotion or awaken to the tumult of engrossing passion. She was free — 


A PARTY OF EIGHT 


173 


to laugh, to sing, to rejoice — and all the burden of her life was how to 
enjoy to the very utmost limit every moment of every hour of each fleet- 
ing day, and how to clog the wheels of time and so increase the sum of 
every passing joy. 

It was one of the pleasing delusions of the Right Honorable Peter 
Finnessmore that he had charge of this butterfly. In a sense he had. 
So also he could stand in the sunshine and breathe the ambient air, but 
to control the Lady Alice was beyond the capacity of the Right Honor- 
able Peter. She followed her own sweet will. 

Being on the best of terms with herself, and endowed with a con- 
siderate disposition, she was on excellent terms with everybody else. 
She recognized the difficulties of the table, and finding herself separated 
from her escort, gave Philip a nod and a smile, as if to intimate that al- 
though separated she kept him in remembrance, and began to flirt with 
his step-father with all the vigor her irrepressible spirit could supply. 
Said she : 

“Uncle tells me Mr. Philip is going into politics. What fun he will 
have !” 

“ Is it very amusing ?” asked Heritage. 

“Immensely so. Vm a politician. At present my mother- keeps me 
in the background, uses me as a sort of decoy for her party, but by-and- 
by I shall set to work on my own account.” She shot a glance of rol- 
licking defiance across the table at her mother as she said this, and then, 
turning* with a serious countenance to Heritage, she asked, “ Now, don’t 
you think it wrong, Mr. Heritage, for mamma to put me off with frivo- 
lous boys at her assemblies when we know there’s a future before me?” 

“Indeed?” queried Heritage. 

“Yes,” exclaimed the Lady Alice, “ don’t you know I’ve got a pocket 
boroufyh — not the old sort that we read about, but one of a new pattern 
—-and when I’ve arranged matters to suit the times I shall look out for 
a candidate and* put him into the seat.” 

“ Isn’t she trying ?” exclaimed the countess, and then all three went on 
with their soup. 

“ How will you arrange your pocket borough ?” asked Heritage in due 
time. 

“ I’ll arrange it by everything that is not political, and regulate the 
votes of the people by mothers’ meetings, reading-rooms, assemblies, and 
lectures — ‘ On the Ichthyosaurus,’ for instance. Magic lanterns and dis- 
solving views, of course, when the ichthyosaurus comes on.” 

“How will the ichthyosaurus help you?” asked Heritage, as much 
amused by the irritation of the countess as by the energy of her daughter. 

“Help me! Why, of course, it will 1 They’ll like my ichthyosaurus, 
and therefore they’ll like my politics.” 

“Isn’t she dreadfully trying, Mr. Heritage ?” sighed the countess. 


174 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ Mamma doesn’t believe in my way. She thinks people reason about 
politics. A few do, but the rest don’t. I’m going to clothe their ideas 
in warm blankets in winter, and air them by picnics in summer, because, 
Mr. Heritage, I’m a politician. Mr. Philip, you Agree with me. If you 
don’t now, you will soon.” 

Philip was sure he would, and said so, and the Lady Alice turned her 
head and laughed. She liked to tease her mother on matters political. 
“ Mother thinks she knows so much about it, you know, my dear, but 
she is quite mistaken,” she would say, and in this filial criticism she fol- 
lowed the manners of many older politicians with glib tongues and reck- 
less assurance. 

The conversation drifted into the ordinary channels — the operatic sea- 
son* which had been a failure, the drama which was awakening to new 
life, the latest trial which was scandalous and foul beyond description, 
but being a trial, the filth had become ordinary. The countess began it, 
but Muriel and Heritage exchanged glances and talked of the weather. 
The dinner passed, and Finnessmore found himself alone with Heritage, 
his host, and Philip, his new secretary-elect. 

“This meeting, my dear fellow,” said Finnessmore, “ is most opportune. 
I am not only able to make the acquaintance of my friend Philip, but I 
am able to ask your advice, and, I hope, secure your co-operation in a 
matter of great importance to all of us — especially to me.” 

Having by this very impressive exordium attracted the attention of 
Heritage, the Right Honorable Peter leaned back in his chair, cleared his 
throat, and balanced a dessert fork on his forefinger. Then, turning 
suddenly on his friend, he added, 

“ There’s a great movement on foot in which the commercial life of 
the country is blending with the political — I may say the imperial. 
Africa, my dear Heritage, is being developed, particularly South Africa, 
and I have been approached in the matter from the City.” 

Heritage smiled. He took a sip of port, and waited. 

“ I was the whole of yesterday, and a great portion of this afternoon, 
going over the details of a remarkable enterprise — the development of 
the mineral wealth of South Africa, in which I am asked to take a 
prominent position.” 

Heritage still remained silent, after giving utterance to a dubious or 
inquiring “ Yes,” and followed the monosyllable by another sip of port, 
obviously with the air of a man who had suspicions of an unwelcome 
proposition in the immediate future. Finnessmore scaled the icy ram- 
part with determination. Said he, 

“ Heritage, ray dear fellow. South Africa needs developing in the in- 
terests of our growing populations— I say populations, for some of our 
older colonies are getting crowded in parts, and South Africa is a mar* 
vellous country.” 


A PARTY OF EIGHT 


175 


Finnessraore felt a little unstable, but was still daring. 

“ Is it gold or diamonds ?” asked Heritage. 

“ Neither !” exclaimed Finnessmore with glee, grasping his friend’s 
wrist in the enthusiasm of the moment. “ Neither of these, but copper 
— commonplace copper — the metal of the housewife and the plumber and 
the gas-fitter — the utilitarian’s metal — the metal in universal demand — 
the metal that is used for ornament, for cooking, for pipes, for coins, for 
everything. I find there is a mountain of it in the undeveloped province 
of Obooboo, called by our pioneers the Great Coradell, and I am invited 
to join in developing it. Now, Heritage,” he added, with an insinuating 
smile, “ you must join me in this !” 

Heritage withdrew his arm from the grasp of Finnessmore with delib- 
eration, settled the decanters in a row in front of him with precision, 
touched them tenderly, as if they had something to do with the subject, 
and then, leaning back in his chair, with an expression of unusual gravity 
on his face, he asked, 

“ How ?” 

Philip looked on with growing interest and excitement. It was his 
introduction to the serious business of life. It was as if a curtain had 
been lifted from some elaborate mechanism whose existence had never 
been imagined by him ; and he was dazzled by the refiection that he, and 
his university colleagues in the cultivation of egotism, had never thought 
of a condition of things so commonplace and so natural as a statesman 
dabbling in commerce and a commercial man being invited to further a 
State purpose. He was elated. 

The question “ How ?” uttered from behind a hedge bristling with 
repellent thorns, and accompanied with that suggestion of a frown com- 
mon with bankers and capitalists in cases where confidence is not absolute, 
brought Finnessmore up to his work with redoubled energy. This 
“ How ?” which obviously meant “ No how,” would have abashed a less 
resolute assailant, but to Finnessmore it was a rung on the ladder upon 
which he could stand firmly and go up from. Said he, 

“ I am asked to be a director of the company — not the chairman ; 
Lord Maladore is that — and I want you to join with me.” 

Finnessraore felt he had thrown bis dice on the table, and experienced 
the sensations of a short-sighted man unable to count the pips. Heritage 
went through the process of arranging the decanters, and when he had 
settled them, abstractedly touching each of them in turn, he again set 
himself back in his chair and delivered himself with a dubious shaking 
of the head : 

“ It would be a serious departure from the leading rule of my com- 
mercial life,” said he, “and of that of my uncle before me, if I associated 
myself with the promoters of a company. Our house has never done so.” 

“ But this is a remarkably safe affair,” said Finnessmore. “ I have 


176 


THE VEILED HAND 


examined it in every detail. I have had Howler with me for four hours. 
It’s in Howler’s hands !” 

This last exclamation was shot at Heritage with accumulated energy, 
in the hope that it would check the solemn head-shaking that seemed 
likely to grow in vigor. 

“ I’m not questioning the soundness of the enterprise,” said Heritage, 
with another touch of the decanters, “ and no doubt Howler has a posi- 
tion, but I am stating a principle. We have never identified ourselves 
with the management of a company.” 

“Then allow me to say,” said Finnessmore, brightening up, “that it’s 
about time you made an exception to that rule, because joint-stock com- 
pany enterprise is rapidly becoming the only outlet for capital.” 

Heritage lifted his hand deprecatingly as he replied, 

“ Say rather that it is rapidly being diverted from the purpose for 
which it was designed to purposes of legalized larceny. But how do 
you reconcile your position as a member of the Government with that 
of a promoter of companies ?” 

“Very simply. I’ve nothing to do with the Colonial OflSce, and 
therefore do not lend the weight of oflSce to the company. On the 
other hand, the development of the colonies, and especially South Africa, 
is a part of the Government’s policy, and I use my position as a private 
citizen to further an object approved by the Government to which I 
happen to belong.” 

“ Theoretically you are sound, but in practice these operations are 
essentially unsound,” said Heritage. “ The Companies Acts have been 
perverted to the basest uses. They have in effect taken the place in the 
public mind of the forbidden lotteries and roulette tables, and are so 
far discreditable that every genuine enterprise is handicapped by the de- 
ceptions practised in company promoting.” 

“And that,” said Finnessmore, triumphantly, “is the very reason I 
contend you should abandon your exclusive policy and co-operate in en- 
terprises of national interest. Now look at the position,” he continued, 
observing the excitement of the ingenuous Philip. “ Here’s, yoiir step- 
son. Why shouldn’t he join if you will not? He will answer every 
purpose, witht)ut compromising your house. He will have plenty of 
time, and will be in a position to look after my interests, and have the 
benefit of your guidance. Now, there can be no objection to that.” 

Heritage wavered, and Philip struck in with enthusiasm, 

“ That would be delightful. I should enjoy it immensely.” 

Heritage shook his head and smiled. It was not a resolute shake; 
and it was a generous and gratified smile. 

“ I’m afraid, Philip,” he said, “ you have little conception of the 
quicksands you would sail near, of the pirates you would consort with, 
of the sharks who would open their capacious jaws at your approach,” 


A PARTY OF EIGHT 


177 


“ He must learn,” said Finnessmore, “ and I can assure you that this 
affair is not only good in itself, but his conjunction with me in connec- 
tion with it would be an immense personal service to me — immense !” 

Heritage weakened fast. He tapped the knuckles of his left hand 
with the fingers of his right — the shaking of his head was less pro- 
nounced. 

“To do you a service, Finnessmore,” said he, “is the greatest induce- 
ment I could have in this connection to comply with your suggestion, 
but you ask me to take a very serious step. I have been, and still am, 
desirous of keeping Philip away from the atmosphere of the City, at 
least until his experience would enable him to distinguish between the 
honorable and dishonorable. Commercial morality, as you know, is in 
the lowest possible state. Men do things without a blush that can in 
no way be distinguished from petty larceny, except that the amounts 
appropriated are larger and the manner of appropriation is different.” 

“ Yes, Heritage,” said Finnessmore, smiling, and putting his hand 
upon Heritage’s. “ You are quite right. It is because we know this, 
and because I want assistance to cope with any blacklegs that may come 
along that I desire Philip’s co-operation. You know. Heritage, if we 
had more honorable men in joint-stock enterprises we should have less 
to complain of.” 

“Yes,” said Heritage, “perhaps you are right in that. Perhaps the 
indolence of the better sort is the cause of the ascendency of the sharp- 
ers. You would like to do this, I suppose, Philip?” he asked. 

“Oh, very much so,” said Philip. 

“ Well,” said Heritage, somewhat sadly, “ perhaps you had better go 
through the specidative measles young and under guidance ; and, as you 
wish it, make your own arrangements with your chief, and don’t discuss 
the matter with me until everything is settled.” 

Philip grasped his step-father’s hand with delight, and thanked him 
with enthusiasm. 

Turning to Finnessmore, Heritage added, 

“ Of course you understand, Finnessmore, that you both act on your 
own responsibility. I am simply Philip’s bondsman financially. Let’s 
go to the drawing-room.” 

This had been a great day for Philip. Politics, commerce, love had 
all been opened up to him within twelve hours, and in circumstances 
that to him were fascinating to the verge of delirium. How could he 
manage to respond to these demands upon his energies and emotions ? 
He clinched his hands and braced himself for a great effort. He must 
succeed in all. 

The Right Honorable Peter was also elated, but there was no tumult 
in his case. His emotions were well in hand. A successful manoeuvre 
12 


178 


THE VEILED HAND 


such as that which he had been engaged in steadied him and made him 
quiet. He settled himself with a sense of restfulness in his easy-chair 
that night. He had marked “ one,” and he reflected on the consequences 
with complacency. He would mark “ two ” within twenty-four hours. 

The Right Honorable Peter had not been as successful in life as he 
felt he was entitled to be. Socially, politically, commercially he had 
been always very near the mark, but somehow he had always missed it. 
His misery was added to by the fear and almost certain knowledge that 
the entire population of his small world knew he was a failure. He 
saw sneers in their nods, and condemnation in their “ How d’e do ?” 
He examined the Court Circular and the list of visitors at dinner-parties 
with avidity ; and his misery was complete when an appointment he 
coveted was given to another. And what appointments did he not 
covet ? 

There is no appetite so voracious as that which desires ascendency in 
social position in a highly-civilized state. It is essentially one of those 
appetites that grows in proportion as it is gratified ; nothing can appease 
it, and its cravings have never yet met with the obstacle of repletion. 
An ordinary jog- trot person — your country squire, whose talk is of 
beeves, would be amazed if he could comprehend the terrible anxieties 
of a man of Finnessmore’s temperament and purposes. Few have any 
conception of the amount of irritation and even suffering that such men 
endure as the fruits of unsatisfied ambition. In ninety-nine cases out of 
a hundred the anguish is wholly useless for any purpose of real gratifi- 
cation or solid gain in the shape of comfort, and of that repose which 
men, throughout the whole of their restless, unsatisfied lives are always 
striving for, but seldom achieve. ’Moralists, cynics, and philosophers re- 
view the sphere of human desires, and utilitarians calculate the advan- 
tages of civilization as a means of happiness in comparison with the cir- 
cumstance of those lives, whose delights consist in a bunch of bananas 
and continuous basking in the sunshine ; but the problem remains un- 
solved, for the holder of a dukedom who has achieved every possible 
Order is often less happy than the ploughman who is gratified with the 
conventional piece of bread- and- pork carved by his clasp-knife as he 
sits on a five-barred gate in the fields. 

The mystery, however, is a mystery only in respect of the individual. 
The restless eagerness, the unachieved ambition, the constant unsuccess- 
ful striving of all men for a success that may be mean and selfish, and 
even despicable, and that should provoke only regret for the man, yet 
contribute here and there in the movements of the world to a real 
achievement and a real accession to the sum of the world’s wealth of 
knowledge. What matters it if the multitude gain and a self-seeking 
schemer fails to reap as he desired ? 

How much of this gain would come to the world from the floating of 


A PARTY OF EIGHT 179 

the Great Coradell (despite the quagmire of deceit and avarice upon 
which it would be founded) remains to be seen. 

There was a meeting next morning between Finnessmore and Howler. 
Certain undertakings were mutually exchanged. Certain figures were 
put on the back of visiting-cards. Certain arrangements were made 
and bound by no stronger threads than self-interest, and the opportunity, 
in the event of failure, of these two interesting persons being able the 
one to call the other “ liar” or “rascal” under his breath — weak bind- 
ings in a sense, but strong as chain-cables in many cases. 

“You see,” said Finnessmore, in the course of this interview, “ what I 
can get for you is the support of the house of Heritage by the adhesion 
as a director of a close connection of the house. I have arranged it. 
Howler; and I will leave myself in your hands. When you have put 
me right, I will declare.” 

The Right Honorable Peter did not hesitate to traffic with that rare 
aad priceless treasure — the generosity of a friend. 


Chapter XXVIII 
THE BOWDLER GARDEN-PARTY 

It was generally acknowledged that the countess had managed mat- 
ters wonderfully well. The diflSculties in the way were enormous, but 
they were all surmounted in the most natural manner. The Prime- 
minister had had at least three minutes’ conversation with Bowdler, who 
was introduced to him by Delfoy; and it was held that Bowdler was 
certainly in the way of being conciliated, for he had actually smiled in 
the course of the conversation, and had afterwards expressed himself as 
pleased with the compliment comprised in an invitation to a garden- 
party honored by a prince of the blood and by the first minister of the 
Crown. 

The prince, who had a keen appreciation of the influence of the mo- 
narchical institution on the radical mind when associated with a person- 
ality, took it into his diplomatic head to talk to Bowdler himself, and 
Finnessmore was called upon to present him. The Right Honorable 
Peter was nervous and excited, but Bowdler assumed a dignified strut, 
and was a model of reserve and deference. The prince put on his 
cheeriest manner, and seemed as much pleased as if Bowdler had been a 
highly accomplished conjurer, a Patagonian high-priest, or some similar 
human novelty. As a matter of fact, Bowdler was a much more impor- 
tant personage in the eyes of the prince than anybody else in the gar- 
den. Of course he did not say so, and there was much speculation 
among the political wire-pullers as to whether the prince had acted on 
his own initiative or had been prompted by a cabinet minister. Some 
more than ordinarily imaginative person concocted the fiction of a spe- 
cial cabinet council to consider the question whether the consequences of 
the prince saying, “ Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bowdler,” 
should be faced in the presence of grave public questions connected 
with the rights of labor; and the correspondent of a New York news- 
paper, who had selected as his missions in life the reconciliation of ab- 
ject snobbery with Spread Eagle Republicanism and the elevation of ' 
personal journalism to the position of a fine art, reported his own con- 
versation with every prominent guest on this most important public 
question, and unhesitatingly concluded that democracy was in the as- 
cendant, and would in the immediate future possess the land to the ex- 
elusion of the titled aristocracy. He pictured in glowing language the 


THE BOWDLER GARDEN-PARTY 


181 


early prospect of the triumphant Bowdler carrying all before him ; and 
hoped and believed he would soon see Bowdler standing with his heel 
upon the neck of the prostrate prince, while he waved the flag of free- 
dom aloft in the face of a triumphant people. The less imaginative 
and more decorous among the company remarked the incident with sup- 
pressed enthusiasm, and had much difficulty in pretending they were 
not intently watching what was going on. 

Finnessmore retired apart after making the presentation with a glow 
of thankfulness suffusing his entire being. He experienced something 
in the shape of a spiritual ecstasy ; but the idol before whom he bowed 
in rapturous thankfulness was his own cleverness. It was indeed a great 
triumph to cap Delfoy’s introduction of Bowdler to polite society by 
bringing him within the circle of royalty itself; and surely now Finness- 
more would be justified in the eyes of his sister notwithstanding the 
duchess hadn’t come. He promised himself the pleasure of offering 
her a delightful revenge by enabling her to announce on an early day 
that the coveted secretaryship had been conferred on a rival to the 
duchess’s nominee ; and, best of all, he saw plainly that no one else 
could now claim the credit of having “ handled Bowdler.” 

But there was one group very near the prince at the time he was 
talkino^ with Bowdler that had emotions of its own to contend with. It 
was the countess’s own party, the family group associated with the 
Lady Alice, that stood in the background as the countess did the hon- 
ors. Philip was there, and Dora and Ethel ; and Muriel on guard — al- 
ways on guard, but more than usually on guard this day. She had at 
first refused to come, but Philip urged her. She knew that the most 
likely of all things to happen to her that day was the one thing of all 
others she most dreaded ; but the constant wearing of the nerves, in fear 
of an unrealized but inevitable catastrophe, had produced a sudden hard- 
ening of her nature — an artificial stubbornness. Something of the sul- 
len courage of the martyr had found place within her, and she stood 
among the crowd unmoved by any of the incidents of common concern 
going on around her. She had come to dare. 

The movement was incessant. To and fro they passed, surging up to 
the corner where the hostess stood for the time being ; and, receding, 
carried with them, under cover of their smiles, the several passions that 
controlled them. 

Some wished they had not come because their reception had not been 
sufficiently enthusiastic; and others were only too glad to bask, solitary 
and at a distance, in the social sunshine that dazzled their plebeian souls. 
Some felt bored, and left immediately they had arrived ; while others 
came at the beginning, and resolved to stay to the end. Some busy men 
found the necessary time from among their professional engagements and 
regarded the visit as an advertisement ; while others of no occupation 


182 


THE VEILED HAND 


regarded the function as a godsend for using up half a day. Some were 
angry because they were obliged to be civil to other people they disliked ; 
and a few, whose object was political, treated the affair as a serious mat- 
ter of business, and were appropriately grave. The reformed cannibal 
confessed to his interpreter that he was not amused, and wanted a big 
drum. 

The Lady Alice had her demi-court. A pink young man with a lisp, 
a sunbrown major with one arm, a languid Foreign Office clerk, a re- 
turned colonial governor, an Indian judge on leave — these and many oth- 
ers of the non-political and immaterial contingent hovered about her as 
long as they dared, filling up odd corners and making way as circum- 
stances required for the more distinguished. They deployed around as 
a background of dull but eminently respectable mediocrity devoted to 
setting off genius, statesmanship, novelty, and the various excellences, 
virtues, and charms of a distinguished London gathering. They were, 
in some cases, the objects of envy for being so near the fountain-head of 
the day’s glory ; in others they were pitied for being so incapable of 
playing the part their position demanded. Still, everybody smiled, and 
Bowdler was captivated if not captured. 

Every one was dying to know what the prince said to make Bowdler 
laugh, and what Bowdler said that made the prince laugh ; and a good 
many people were annoyed to find Bowdler so much at his ease, and 
others were annoyed that the prince should have taken the trouble to put 
him at his ease, as if the prince could alter the habit of his life, or as if 
he didn’t understand his own business best. It was when this matter of 
profound and general concern was absorbing almost universal attention 
that Muriel, still on guard, saw her husband approaching in conversation 
with a companion, slowly and decorously, but, although slowly, with in- 
tent. Barring obstacles, they came in a bee-line towards her, and she 
knew that- the other was Geoffrey Delfoy. 

. She looked hastily to the right, where Philip was talking with the 
Lady Alice, oblivious of everything but her gauzy presence, and supreme- 
ly happy in the blind confidence of a new and growing hope. Muriel 
shuddered at the sight. Still the two figures continued to approach, 
still talking, and she could see that Geoffrey was looking much older and 
sterner, more resolute and colder. 

“ How do they know each other ?” she asked herself. “ Morris has 
never mentioned the other’s name.” 

The situation grew in intensity as they approached, and the suspense 
was terrible. The prince laughed and Bowdler bowed ; Philip glowed 
with enthusiasm, and the Lady Alice flirted with charming impartiality ; 
the entire company moved about like listless bees who had given up 
making honey ; and the two figures came nearer, nearer, as listlessly as 
the rest. Presently “ the other one ” stopped, straightened himself, and 


THE BOWDLER GARDEN-PARTY 


183 


looked towards Bowdler. He made a remark, accompanied with a sar- 
donic smile. 

“ Bowdler is evidently making himself amusing,” said he. “ He’ll be 
quite tame after this.” 

Then he glanced to where the Prime-minister was taking leave of 
Lady Bolore, and was languidly turning to Heritage, when he saw Mu- 
riel, boldly erect, with her eyes fixed on him and with defiance. Delfoy’s 
face blanched, his features seemed suddenly to become flattened and ex- 
pressionless, all but his lower lip seemed to be obliterated, and that pro- 
jected farther than usual and trembled. He looked upon the ground, 
and was slower in his walk than hitherto. Then he raised his head and 
looked again, this time with the eyes half closed, as if to shield them 
and to shield his barren heart. Now they had come quite close, and 
Heritage was saying, in his pleasant, gracious way, 

“ Delfoy — my wife. My dear — one of my old-time friends.” 

They were bowing — bowing low. Muriel did not hold out her hand, 
and Delfoy, recovering, said : 

“Your husband, Mrs. Heritage, was very intimate with my family in 
our youth. It is very pleasing to renew old friendships in new and agree- 
able circumstances.” 

Muriel bowed again. She did not dare to speak, not even to say she 
was unwell, and Delfoy went on slowly and indifferently, 

“ It must be eighteen years at least. Heritage, since last we met. It 
seems odd that we should have been so long separated.” 

The remark applied to either case, as he intended it should; and 
amazement acted like a tonic to Muriel as he continued, in lackadaisical 
accents, 

“ I have almost regretted the circumstances that sent us in different 
directions ; but we appear to have made the best of them, and I hope we 
shall not lose sight of each other in future.” 

“ I hope so, too,” said Heritage ; “ and I must introduce Philip to you, 
as you have been so good as to promise to look after him.” 

As Heritage moved aside to wrest his step-son from the delightful 
tutelage of the Lady Alice, Delfoy lifted his eyebrows and asked, 

“Were you ever in Nice, Mrs. Heritage?” 

“ No,” was the faint reply. 

“ Ah, singular. You remind me of a lady I met there once. Indeed, 
when I first saw you I thought you were the very same, but it i-s obvious 
we have never met before.” 

“ No ; never before.” 

The words came with a deep-drawn, welling sigh that was almost a 
sob — a sob of relief, of bewilderment, of deliverance. 

Philip came up, and they were all busy over the introduction, in which 
she naturally avoided taking any part. During the ceremony she heard 


184 


THE VEILED HAND 


1 

Delfoy say, with a composure that amazed her far more than the words 
he used, 

“Your father tells me you’re going to be private secretary to my friend 
Finnessmore. I am very glad to hear it. Capital opportunity for you. 

If I can be of any service to you at any time, don’t fail to come to me.” 

He spoke pleasantly, openly, and quite without concern ; and as he left 
them shortly afterwards he cast his eyes around languidly, and said to 
himself as he moved away : 

“ And those are the girls. A strange world — very strange !” 


Chapter XXIX 


CITY MATTERS 

We are accustomed in a general way to regard “ the City ” as a hard 
place, where people make hard bargains and settle them in hard cash ; 
where a man’s word is supposed to be his bond, to be rigidly exacted, 
and, if broken, never to be mended throughout all time. And so it is, in 
a general way, and especially when the strong bargain with the weak, 
and where there is any individual wrenching and squeezing to be done ; 
but every now and then a time comes upon the City when the frenzy of 
hysteria pervades everybody in it, and when everything hard seems to 
become soft, invertebrate, and infantile. 

It was one of these times when the great Coradell Mine came out, for 
these times are of two kinds — they supervene upon misfortune and they 
grow out of prosperity. There is a panic of expectation as well as a 
panic of fear, a determination to put one’s neck into the halter as well 
as a determination to avoid it. The Great Coradell now issued in a sea- 
son of hope. It came upon the City in circumstances that excited the 
gambling instinct to frenzy ; and it became a struggle and a race as to 
who should participate in this very “ good thing.” 

The prospectus had been drawn with consummate skill. Studied mod- 
eration had obviously been the ruling principle of its draughtsman. No 
exaggerated pretensions were put forward, and, as a crowning evidence 
of the hona Jides of the enterprise, it was announced that the directors 
and their personal friends had made application for one- fourth of the 
whole capital. And who were the directors? The interesting fact of 
their abounding confidence naturally directed attention to the^ personal 
question, and the personal question was beyond criticism. The Marquis 
of Maladore was at least a marquis, and the German baron of Anglo- 
Dutch extraction and with a South-African address inspired confidence 
because he was unknown and was generally supposed to have lived on 
the Great Coradell. Mr. Flaire had been about the City for some years, 
and so had Mr. Gowcher. These two were regarded as fortunate fellows, 
and people wondered how they got into so good a thing. In the se- 
cret recesses of their heart they themselves wondered why they hadn’t 
been got rid of as the board rose in character, and concluded there was 
a reason for that as for most other things. The disappointed company 
promoter, having a tongue to speak and eyes to wink and a head to 


186 


THE VEILED HAND 


shake, can do a deal of injury to an embryo enterprise if he goes about 
the City wagging that tongue and winking those eyes and shaking that 
head now and again at odd intervals, even though he says, winks, and 
shakes nothing out that any one can take hold of. Indeed, the more 
indefinite and more mysterious the wagging and winking, the greater the 
damage. So Flaire and Gowcher remained to welcome the Right Hon- 
orable Peter and Philip Heritage, and a most deferential welcome it was. 

The adhesion of a member of the Government and of a connection of 
the great House of Heritage, that had never been known since its founda- 
tion to have anything to do with the floating of joint-stock companies, 
was a great fact. Being so extraordinary and startling a breach of prec- 
edent, the fact had been put about surreptitiously, as it were, and as a 
rare “ tip,” to be treasured in confidence, to be used with discretion, and 
operated on with future profit. The name of his step-father’s firm did 
not follow Philip’s name on the prospectus, but his step-father’s private 
address did. And the astute Peter discovered a reason, wholly political 
and departmental, why Philip should not be publicly announced to be 
his private secretary until after the lapse of five weeks, so that Philip’s 
name on the Great Coradell board should be conclusively exhibited as a 
Heritage connection and not as a Finnessmore. He so contrived, indeed, 
that it should be obvious to the meanest perceptions that Philip became 
the Right Honorable Peter’s private secretary because he was a director of 
the Great Coradell, and would never have been thought of in that capac- 
ity but for this striking departure of the House of Heritage from estab- 
lished precedent. It was all very well done, and the rush for shares was 
so great that every man connected with the floating of the company act- 
ually believed that he had stumbled on a good thing without in the 
least intending it, so utterly indiiferent are gentry of this sort as to 
whether the goods they offer to a confiding public are good or bad so 
long as they look well. 

On the morning of the issue the City was attacked by an epidemic. 
The bank that had the good -fortune to receive the subscriptions — the 
Consolidated Bank of the Cape of Good Hope — was besieged by an 
eager crowd before its doors were opened ; and all day long its ordinary 
business was reduced to the narrowest possible limits short of complete 
suspension, while the British investor poured his savings into the Great 
Coradell. The wealthier subscriber of course posted his application and 
his check, and those who invaded the doors may be regarded as belong- 
ing to that class commonly described as the “widow and the orphan,” 
including as it does all those who, being of comparatively small means, 
ask unusually large interest, and fight wildly to compass this much-desired 
return, regardless of the security. This is universally acknowledged to 
be the habit of the “ widow and the orphan.” They want more "to eat 
and drink, and this is one of the ways they try to get it. 


CITY MATTERS 


187 ’ 


Thus the Consolidated Bank of the Cape of Good Hope was quite 
crowded, and the investors continued to crowd. Many of them came 
attracted by the name of the bank. To be “consolidated” is to be solid, 
they argued ; and to be of Good Hope was exactly theit condition of 
mind. The “Cape” was thrown in as landed property, or disregarded, 
according to the temperament of the intending investor ; but the very 
name of the bank turned the balance of “aye” or “no” in many minds, 
and these, with the rest, pressed to the counter. 

On the outskirts of this eager crowd were a couple of apparently in- 
different investors — two men who seemed to be endowed with more than 
the ordinary patience of men in general when kept waiting, and perfect 
marvels of nonchalance when considered on the standard of men desirous 
of being “in a good thing.” They were phenomenal for indifference. 
One of them was a slim man, inclined to a sporting habit, in a checkered 
suit, with a low-crowned hat, and carrying a riding-cane. He answered 
to the name of Shout, and addressed his friend as Vickers. Vickers was 
a large man, wearing a buttoned frock-coat and a tall hat with a curved 
brim. He was one of those men you never hoped in any circumstances 
to see clean, because you knew you would be disappointed. The starch 
in his shirt cuffs and collars made away with itself immediately it came 
in contact with him, and gave up the linen to hopeless contamination. 
His eyes were bleary, his nose was large and inclined to red. His hair 
was lank and iron-gray, never to be white in any circumstances, and his 
voice thick but pretentious. He was the father of Laura. 

Shout gave his companion a nudge, and directed his attention to a 
man who had just arrived in hot haste and was wiping his forehead as 
he regained his breath. Having done this, he looked about him to see 
in what way he could supplant his predecessors. Shout’s attention had 
been attracted by the man’s costume. He was evidently a butcher, and 
in full dress, with a silk hat, a blue jean frock-coat, white sleevelets and 
white apron, and with a ponderous steel slung from a leathern girdle 
loosely encircling his waist. Observing him, one instinctively looked 
round for the block and the chopper, and the volatile Shout seemed 
amused at the sight of a butcher in full dress in a City bank. Being an 
exceedingly quick man, he had noticed Shout’s proceedings, and being a 
choleric man he resented them. 

“ Sir, to you,” said the butcher, with a defiant look at Shout. “ Have 
you anything to complain of ?” 

“ Nothing to complain of,” answered Shout, with a bow from which 
mockery was not absent. 

“ Then don’t look as if you had.” And bridling up, the man con- 
tinued, with pouting lips and inflated cheeks, “ I suppose there’s nothing 
criminal in a tradesman going outside his shop in his tradesman’s dress ? 
I suppose I am at liberty to step out on a little matter of special busi- 


188 


THE VEILED HAND 


ness and step back home again to continue my ordinary business with- 
out your coming your jeers and your gibes ?” 

“ I offered neither jeer nor gibe, Mr. Tradesman,” said Shout, with 
another bow in which mockery was distinctly present. 

“My name ain’t ‘ Tradesman,’ it’s Joy, and I’m not ashamed of it, nor 
of my trade; neither of one nor all of my trades, any more than the 
gentleman in broadcloth is ashamed to eat what I provide, whether it’s 
from the bakery, or the grocery, or the pork-shop. And I’ve a right to 
come here as well as another and make my application and lodge my 
cash without your jeers or gibes, spoken or acted.” 

“ My dear fellow,” began Shout, apologetically, when he was cut short 
by another outburst, 

“Don’t ‘dear fellow’ me, ’cause I ain’t your ‘dear fellow,’ nor no- 
body else’s ‘dear fellow’ except my missis’s, and I don’t want to be nei- 
ther dear nor cheap to you, and I should recommend you to keep a civil 
tongue in your head.” 

This was rather hard on Shout, who, whatever was in his mind, had 
not used a single word that any one could take exception to on the 
ground of politeness ; but as the butcher’s voice was none of the softest, 
and his bearing none of the mildest, the altercation called for the inter- 
vention of the bank porter, whose green coat and brass bi^ttons com- 
manded respect. The storm, however, was not allayed in a moment, 
and the irate butcher wanted to know why one tradesman should be 
allowed to go about in the dress of his trade without remark and an- 
other should not. “ What about your clergyman, I should like to know ? 
Doesn’t he go about in his black clothes, with a button-up waistcoat and 
a round collar and a low-crowned wide-awake ? Do you jeer and gibe at 
’im ?” This question was shot over the bank porter’s shoulder at Shout, 
who still exhibited signs of simulated politeness, in the shape of appre- 
ciative nods and a blank expression of countenance expressive of an ob- 
trusively earnest desire to understand the pork -butcher and do him 
justice. 

“ Oh dear no,” said Shout, “ we jeer and gibe at nobody — nobody. 
Do we, Vickers ?” 

The stout man held up his hand deprecatingly and shook his head, 
whispering, “ Nobody. This is a bank !” 

Upon which the pork-butcher moved aside, muttering he should think 
it was, and that it was not likely to be anything else, and that if it was IJ 
anything else it wasn’t likely he would be there on such an errand ; and, 
thus reflecting, with looks of defiance at Shout he backed in among the ^ 
crowd, and by dint of vigorous elbowing he managed to get near the i 
counter before a good many others who had precedence of him, and 
found a man in a new suit of corduroy trousers and a gray jacket, who 
gave the name of Littercan, subscribing a good round sum because he 


CITY MATTERS 


189 


knew Mr. Heritage, and because, as he confided to the clerk at the coun- 
ter, he had considered of him and knew of him to be a real gentleman, 
as was true to the backbone.” 

And in suchwise the Great Coradell was over-subscribed, and went to 
a premium, and was sold and resold with loss and gain, with rejoicings 
and regrets that the sellers hadn’t sold before or the buyers hadn’t bought 
before, or that the several persons concerned had or had not done some- 
thing that 'they might have done or left undone, as is the manner of 
persons who flounder vacuously in the barren plains of what might have 
been if something else hadn’t happened. 

On the day of allotment, which was also the day of the division of the 
spoil, the marquis was jubilant, and shook hands with Mr. Gowcher 
without a qualm — without even noticing what he had done ; and Mr. 
Flaire considered his reputation as a City man was established for all 
time ; Mr. Alister talked no more of pyrites, but of gold ; the German 
baron of Anglo -Dutch extraction accepted the position without emo- 
tion, and in this respect he was matched by Finnessmore. Philip was 
amazed. 

No time was lost in transferring the contributions of the British in- 
vestor to the Great Coradell Company to their ultimate destination, and 
in due course it happened that the claims of Mr. Shad the vendor had 
to be considered. An appointment was made in the cavernous oflSce of 
Messrs. Huckle & Broil, and the persons present were Mr. Huckle, stand- 
ing before the fire, grim and angular, with Mr. Trip at a side-table, biting 
his nails and screwing up his eyes ; and Mr. Shad, Mr. Trip’s client, sit- 
ting apologetically on a chair, but withal presenting in his manner much 
the appearance of a stoat or ferret, and quite ready to take a grip, in 
passing, at anything or anybody that could be laid hold of unobserved. 

“Now,. Mr. Shad,” said Huckle, hauling his coat-tails as high up his 
back as he could, “ we’ve had a good run, and now it’s your turn.” 

“Yes,” said Shad, and waited. 

“ I’m the solicitor for the company, you know, Mr. Shad,” said Huckle, 
somewhat inconsequently, “but I happen to know that the secretary has 
handed to Mr. Trip, your solicitor, a check in which you will participate.” 

“ Yes,” said Shad. “ How much ?” 

“A fairish amount,” said Huckle ; “ but you have to pay certain claims 
upon you for the property you have sold, you know ; and you take the 
balance after paying them.” 

“Yes,” said Shad, blinking over his knuckles. 

“ Well, Mr. Shad,” said Huckle, in tones of triumph, “ we’ve got your 
£500 all snug in your solicitor’s hands, and he’ll pay it over now in my 
presence.” 

“ I want more than that,” said Shad, doggedly. “ I must have more 
than that.” But he made no movement ; there was only a voice. 


190 the veiled hand 

“ Good !” exclaimed Huckle. “ Give me your hand, Mr. Shad. Capi- 
tal! I knew you’d say that. Didn’t I say so, Trip? Capital! Of 
course you’ll have more than that. You shall have a cool thousand, 
Mr. Shad, and Mr. Trip has got it for you.” 

“Not more?” asked Shad, in the same dull tone. 

“ Well, my friend,” said Huckle, in a tone of remonstrance, “ it’s 
double the bargain, but I’ve something else to say.’’ 

“ Yes.” 

“The affair has gone off very well up to now. Things often do go 
off well, but after going off well they drop a little. They must drop. 
They’re bound to drop, because they go up so high. We can’t help that, 
Mr. Shad,” continued Huckle, hurriedly, as if he expected Shad to com- 
plain. “ That’s the way of things. So we must expect a drop in Great 
Coradells ; and then things won’t be so rosy all round as they are now. 
Besides this, it will take a year or two to work the business, and during 
all that time there’ll be no dividend, and that will make another drop in 
Great Coradells, and things instead of looking rosy all round will look 
black all round. Do you see, Mr. Shad ?” asked Huckle, coming sudden- 
ly to a full stop. 

Shad nodded. 

“ Now then,” continued Huckle, dropping his coat-tails and bringing 
his hands into play, “ we now come to the important point. When peo- 
ple don’t get dividends, and when the shares they’ve paid a premium for 
are offered at a discount, they begin to think of the vendor, and they 
say, ‘ Where’s that rascal ?’ ” 

Shad gave a start. 

“ They do, Mr. Shad,” exclaimed Huckle, stretching out his hands as 
if he would suppress his hearer’s emotion. “ That’s what they say, and 
they can’t help it. They know nothing about it — nothing about any- 
thing; and they say, most unjustly and erroneously, ‘Where’s that rascal ?’ 
Now my experience is and always has been, Mr. Shad, that the wise 
vendor is not in the way when that question is asked. He has usually 
gone on a journey. The foolish vendor hangs about, but the wise one 
doesn’t.” 

The lawyer took to searching for his coat-tails again, and ceased speak- 
ing. The silence was broken by Mr. Trip. 

I observe, said he, addressing Mr. Huckle as if he were seeking in- 
formation, “ that you don’t advise Mr. Shad to go away.” 

“ Oh, dear no,” exclaimed Huckle, “ I advise nothing. I merely state 
facts ; and between you and me, Mr. Trip, the matter doesn’t concern 
me, but it must be obvious to you that if it were my case, Mr. Trip, I 
should travel.” 

Ah, said Trip, “ so should I and then screwing up his eyes much 
more, and still addressing himself to Huckle, without any apparent refer- 


CITY MATTERS 


191 


ence to Shad, he said, “ And now suppose I had a client who was a 
vendor, and who had sold his property and had got the cash, what would 
you advise me to advise him ?” 

“ Well,” said Huckle, with his hands very high up under his coat-tails, 
and his frowning face severely regarding the ground, “I don’t know, 
Mr. Trip, that I would go even as far as advising you what advice to give ; 
and I don’t know that I would go as far as advising you to give any advice 
at all. It seems to me, Mr. Trip, that in such a case the vendor should 
act wholly on his own responsibility, and then ask advice afterwards if 
he wants it — if, you know, for instance, any one wants to know why he 
did as he did, which if he wasn’t round about to be questioned would 
never happen. A man on the other side of the Rockies, for instance, is 
diflBcult to get at.” 

There was silence again for a moment or two, and then Shad broke 
out with, 

“ Make it two thousand and I’ll go.” 

On which Huckle looked up with surprise and exclaimed, 

“ I can’t ‘ make ’ it anything, Mr. Shad. The sum is made — you made 
; it, and it is yours. Mr. Trip may manage something more for you ; I 
■ cannot. Really you mustn’t talk of ‘ making ’ it anything.” 

The lawyer looked quite distressed at the suggestion, and continued 
by urging Mr. Shad to make an effort not to be unreasonable. 

^ “ I see how it is,” said Shad, suddenly rising from his chair, “ I see.” 

He swung his right clinched hand round and caught it in his left palm, 
and then threw it away again in his nervous excitement, as if it had been 
the thought that annoyed him. “ I see ; you want to get me out of the 
way. I say again, make it two thousand and I’ll go. You shall see 
me no more.” And saying this he lowered at them. 

“Now, there again,” said Huckle, “how wrong you are, Mr. Shad. 
We don’t want to get you out of the way. I’m quite sure Mr. Trip 
doesn’t. He makes money out of such a client as you. Mr. Trip 
doesn’t want to throw away money. I don’t want to get rid of you. 
Surely not. When a man excites my interest and — er — admiration, I 
like him to stay with me; and when, as in your case, he comes through 
a large transaction with a nice little lot of money, why, I like to see him 
— keep it.” 

“ But is it fair asked Shad, plaintively. 

“Fair, Mr. Shad? Fair? What is fair and unfair to us?” asked 
Huckle, moving from the fireplace to his seat. “ What have we to do 
with fair or unfair — Mr. Trip or me ?” 

“Is it honorable?”. asked Shad, excitedly, again striking his right fist 
into his left palm to relieve himself. 

“ Now, there again,” said Huckle, “ what have we to do with honora- 
ble or dishonorable ? Nothing. We have to do with law and with fact — 


192 


THE VEILED HAND 


nothing else ; and law and fact are two ugly customers to deal with 
when they are against you. Wise men, Mr. Shad, don’t stop to be 
knocked about by them ; they get out of their reach, especially if they 
have anything to lose.” 

So saying Mr. Huckle turned to his letters and papers, and thrust his 
right shoulder round so as to present as much of his back as possible to 
the unfortunate Shad, who was gradually repelled by the shoulder, and 
edged himself away in the direction of Mr. Trip, by whom he was car- 
ried off, and finally disposed of as if by a sympathetic friend and pro- 
tector, whose virtues and gentleness shone prodigiously against the harsh 
background of the uncompromising Huckle. 

It was casually announced during the following week that Mr. Shad* 
the vendor of the Great Coradell, had gone to San Francisco to conduct 
an exploration party of large dimensions in that interesting region. 


Chapter XXX 


A BUSY DAY 

I 

! A MAN may not be a hero to his valet; but he is sometimes a deity, and 
often a precious charge. The sight of Dubley preparing to enter Delfoy’s 
bedroom in the morning exhibited a devotion it would be hard to match. 
Delfoy’s morning draught was rum and warm milk, and Dubley prepared 
it himself on a gas-stove in a little room, where the exact heat of the 
milk was determined by a thermometer and the exact quantity of rum 
was measured by Dubley with the precision of a chemist. The brushed 
clothes were there, the varnished boots were there, the morning letters 
were there, the Times was there, cut and aired, and Dubley pointed at 
each of them in turn, reciting in the form of an incantation the morning 
inventory of the things that were wanted. He then put the letters and 
the rum-and-milk on a small salver, and approached the bedroom door 
with absolute silence. Opening the door, he entered with the caution of 
a burglar or a cat. 

Delfoy appeared to be sleeping, and having put the salver on the table 
beside the bed, Dubley retired backward three paces and clasped his 
hands in a condition of anxiety and doubt. The milk would cool — 
should he wake his master ? He waited, scarcely breathing, when to his 
immense relief Delfoy moved. The first great anxiety of the day was 
passed, and Delfoy drank the rum-and-milk. 

“'Open the blind, Dubley, and come back in five minutes,” said Del- 
foy. 

! No blinds were ever drawn more quietly. They were curtains really, 
and Dubley had contrived them so as to work noiselessly. All the rings 
were wound round with whip-cord so that they never clinked, and they 
were drawn over wooden pulleys that never spoke. Dubley himself wore 
list slippers, and a disembodied spirit could not have glided about the 
room with less evidence of its existence except from sight. Delfoy was 
asleep again before Dubley had closed the door. 

In five minutes he had returned noiselessly as before, and stood within 
the door with uplifted hands, ready for action if opportunity offered. 
Delfoy awoke and said, “ Oh,” and thus the second great anxiety of the 
day was passed — Delfoy had not cursed him. 

Delfoy opened his letters, or rather such of them as provoked imme- 
diate attention. He read them, yawned, and said, 

13 


194 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ Lord Maladore is coming at 11. I’ll see him ; and Mr. Alister comes 
to lunch at 1.30.” 

“ Yes, sir. If you please, sir, Mr. Shout has called.” 

“ Oh, Shout ! Where is he ?” 

“ In the sitting-room, sir.” 

“ Shout ! Ah ! Well, what does he want?” 

“ To see you, sir. Important business, but not for long.” 

“I wonder how much he wants this time?” mused Delfoy ; and then 
aloud he said, “ Has he come to borrow, Dubley ?” 

“ Well, sir, I think he have, sir. He has a borrowing air, sir, this 
morning,” said Dubley, with a faint and bashful smile. 

“ What sort of an air is ‘ a borrowing air,’ Dubley ?” 

“ Well, sir, a quiet and subdued air, sir. Besides, sir, Mr. Shout has 
gloves on and a black coat, sir.” 

“ Is that a sign ?” 

“ Oh yes, sir,” said Dubley. “ Mr. Shout would never think of going 
out to borrow without gloves, sir. It looks more respectable, sir, and 
more trustworthy.” 

“ Ah ! that never occurred to me,” said Delfoy, absently. Then, after 
a pause, he added, “ Take Mr. Shout the paper, say I’m glad he has called, 
and ask him to take breakfast with me. I’ll get up.” 

Mr. Shout received the invitation with complacency, took off his gloves, 
and seated himself in an easy-chair with the remark that, as his appetite 
never failed him, he would “ do himself the pleasure of breakfasting with 
his dear friend Delfoy.” 

Delfoy arrived in due time, in an old check travelling suit, and con- 
templated Shout with a grin upon his face, which was otherwise blanched 
and seared and generally depreciated by wear and tear, very much like a 
much-worn family coach in the matter of scratched varnish and faded 
furnishings, or a weather-beaten hatchment that had twice done duty in 
the rainy season. 

“ Anything new. Shout ?” 

“ Nothing in the public way, but I want you to join me in a new pro- 
duction.” 

“ Well, how much ? Out with it.” 

“ A monkey.” 

“ Then let’s have breakfast and talk about it.” 

They ate a whiting apiece in silence, when Delfoy said, 

“ I can’t understand how people get on who eat no breakfast. I al- 
ways eat a good breakfast. I should die if I didn’t eat.” 

“ Naturally,” said Shout. “ I should die if I didn’t drink, so oblige 
me with the claret.” 

They drank claret and coffee, ate rapidly, and talked little. Some 
lightly cooked cutlets followed the whiting, and then Delfoy suggested 


A BUSY DAY 


195 


a little brandy and a cigarette. He made the suggestion with quite un- 
necessary hesitation. Shout responded with alacrity, and they had two 
glasses each before Dubley cleared the table. 

“ Now, about this play. Shout. I suppose it’s as bad as the rest ?” 

Shout shook his head as he answered, 

“ No, capital piece. It’s by Maddon. I suppose he stole it from his 
I friend Soley before he died. He couldn’t possibly have written it him- 
j self. Too good.” 

“ What does he want for it ?” 

“ A hundred pounds, or two pounds a week during the run.” 

“And you want four hundred more to put it on?” 

Shout nodded, and Delfoy considered. 

“ I suppose. Shout, you want to make money ?” he asked, after some 
reflection. 

Shout nodded again. 

“ Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll not lend you five hundred ; I’ll 
give you one. That will be better for both of us. Let us suppose you 
had bought the play and had run it, and had paid me back my loan, and 
had made a hundred profit. Let us begin now where we are supposed 
to have left off. This will save me four hundred, and make you one 
hundred, without three months’ hard work.” 

Shout laughed aloud, with his head thrown back, his hands in his 
pockets, and his legs stretched out before him. Delfoy remained un- 
moved, smoking deliberately. 

“ You’re not serious?” asked Shout. 

“I am, my boy. Quite.” 

“ But it’s a great chance.” 

“Yes, but I like certainties. What I offer you is a certainty. 
Think of it. You’ve got your profit and your time. I never diso- 
blige a friend, and especially such a friend as you, and I at once im- 
prove on your request. You know. Shout, you stand high in my 
esteem.” 

Delfoy finished his cigarette, and rising from his chair, said, 

“ Let me write a check for your profits at once ; and then I’ll tell you 
how you can utilize your time and make more.” 

Shout made no response, and his eye twinkled at the appearance of 
the check-book. 

“ No. 2478 is your number. Shout. You observe I never make my 
checks payable to persons. I know who No. 2478 is. It’s not necessary 
any one else should, and certainly it is not information that need be im- 
pajted to all the bank clerks in the town. There, my friend, and now 
to business. That’s pleasure.” 

He handed the check with a bow, and then passed across the room to 
an Italian cabinet. Opening the inlaid door, he disclosed an iron safe. 


196 


THE VEILED HAND 


and from that he drew some scrip. Returning deliberately across the 
room, he said, 

“ Here, my dear Shout, is your scrip in the Great Coradell, and here 
is the scrip of your friend Vickers. Give it to him, with my compliments 
— but no, perhaps you had better keep it for him until it is necessary for 
him to produce it. Go to him at once, and take him down to old Bar- 
cham’s, and get him to instruct Barcham to raise an action against Lord 
Maladore, and Finnessmore, and Heritage, and all the rest of the direc- 
tors of the Great Coradell for false representations and fraud, and get 
him to set about it this morning.” 

“ Well, I’m blistered !” exclaimed Shout. 

“Quite so,” said Delfoy ; “and now you’d better leave here, because 
the marquis is coming in half an hour to consult me about his position. 
Have another liqueur ?” 

They each had another; and Shout left, with “You quite understand ” 
on the one part and “Yes, perfectly,” on the other, and much laughing 
and hand-shaking and an appointment for the morrow. 

“ My dear marquis,” said Delfoy, still smoking cigarettes, but with 
the air of a worn-out politician exhausted by reading the debates in the 
Times. “ My dear marquis, the House bores me.” 

“ Oh yes, it bores you,” repeated the marquis, peering forward at the 
languid Delfoy, as if he would ascertain his symptoms in detail. “ Per- 
haps it does,” he added, doubtfully, as if Delfoy were not a trustworthy 
witness on the subject. 

The incident was altogether disconcerting to the marquis. He had 
come with a set purpose, and a set speech, and to be met with a general 
observation that the House of Commons bored his friend made his pro- 
gramme difficult of execution^ The marquis was not quick at repartee. 
To have come round this psychological corner with dexterity was as im- 
possible to the marquis as driving a four-in-hand down Piccadilly at 5 in 
the afternoon. 

“You’re a good deal better off than us, Maladore,” continued the bored 
legislator. “ You’ve no constituents, to begin with. You have only your 
own conscience and your sense of public duty to drive you forward. But 
in our House we’re bored in all directions. We’re bored by the long sit- 
tings, we’re bored by the long speeches, we’re bored by the bores.” 

The Times slipped from his knees as he rose to light another cigarette 
and shake himself into a condition of active life. 

“ Yes,” said the marquis, “ I suppose you are bored.” And, after re- 
flection, he added, “ You must be.” 

“ Yes,” repeated Delfoy, and then he, also, after reflection, said, with 
awaking energy, “And now, Maladore, what is it you want to see me 
about ?” 


A BUSY DAY 


197 


“ Ah yes, it’s about the Great Coradell,” answered the marquis, with 
a suddenness indicative of his having just thought of it. 

“ A bad business,” said Delfoy, shaking his head. “ I’ve got a thou- 
sand in it^ but never mind that, my dear Maladore, that’s nothing. Ac- 
cept my sincerest sympathy with you in this devil of a mess you’ve got 
yourself into. A devil of a mess !” he repeated, as he made circles of 
smoke and chased them as they rose by their own levity. 

“ You think it a mess, do you, colonel ?’’ 

“ Only the management. The thing’s good enough,” said Delfoy, 
gravely. 

“ Oh, you think the thing’s good enough, eh ?” 

“ Yes, with management.” 

“Ah,” said the marquis; “ but they say they can’t manage without your 
assistance.” 

“Very complimentary, but I’m afraid I can’t join you. You’re wel- 
come to my thousand. I shall never sell and never trouble you, but I 
,cannot join your board. No. Public man, public interests. Contrary 
to my principles to be on commercial boards.” 

Delfoy said all this with much head-shaking and frowning at his slip- 
pers, as if he were bringing out all his principles one after the other to 
look at the facts and dispose of them on their merits. 

The marquis applauded his principles, wished he had been guided by 
them himself, and said he wouldn’t think of compromising Delfoy’s 
position. 

“ Then what can I do for you, my dear Maladore ? Select committee ? 
Public inquiry? Question the Colonial Secretary?” 

The marquis fluttered his hands about in front of his eyes at the bare 
notion of public action, and exclaimed, 

“Dear me, no. No publicity, for Heaven’s sake! We merely want 
you to let us have some of your land. You hem us in, and we want 
water.’ We want to arrange matters quietly.” 

“ Anything in reason, my dear fellow — anything. Fix a proper price, 
and you shall have the lot.” 

The marquis declined taking the lot, was afraid it would be too ex- 
pensive, said the directors would have to find the money to buy it, and 
tried to persuade the colonel that opening up the country would raise 
the value of the remainder. The colonel declared he had had enough of 
the property, would be glad to clear out, would like his dear friend to 
have the profit on the rise, and placed himself wholly at his dear friend’s 
disposal. 

“ But,” he added, “ you, my friend, are an individual. I must deal 
with the corporation. You had better send your solicitor to see me, and 
we will come to an understanding.” 

“Yes, yes,” said the marquis; “but remember, colonel, it’s all good 


198 


THE VEILED HAND 


land yours ; it will rise in value, I’m told. You mustn’t throw it away. 
You must hold it while we work up the value.” 

The colonel shook his head, repudiated the suggestion that he could 
be guilty of the immoral act of profiting by another’s expenditure, and 
showed the marquis out with innumerable protestations of self-abnega- 
tion, as if his whole life had been devoted to personal sacrifice and the 
pleasure of his friends. 

It was arranged that Mr. Huckle should be instructed to wait upon the 
colonel the very next day and frame a contract. 

As the door closed Dubley approached, with his hands almost clasped, 
and with anxiety on every line of his countenance, as he whispered that 
Mr. Alister had been waiting for a quarter of an hour. 

“ Show him in,” said Delfoy, in his blandest tones. 

“Yes, sir,” said Dubley; “but, if you please, sir, Mrs. Delfoy’s with 
him. What am I to do with her ?” 

“ Send her to the devil.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Dubley’s ready complaisance somewhat appeased his master, who did 
not pursue his violent disposition beyond slamming the door as he en- 
tered his room, and violently promenading it, muttering imprecations 
upon women generally — a practice much in vogue among men who treat 
them ill. 

His malevolent soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance of the 
bounding Alister, who had increased in brilliance of costume ever since 
he had been able to call Mr. Sep|imus Howler his friend, and who ac- 
costed the colonel with many expressions of anxiety about his health, 
and of interest in his welfare generally. Any one could have seen at a 
glance that Alister had special reasons of his own for wishing long life 
and prosperity to his beloved friend the colonel, and he did not make 
the least attempt to disguise the fact. 

There is a thick folio volume to be seen in the private rooms of bank- 
ers, bill discounters, and merchants of high standing which they prize 
highly. It is a record of the standing and commercial probity of all 
firms of any pretensions throughout the United Kingdom. To be re- 
corded in that book at all is a distinction, and to be omitted is not to 
exist for any purpose, where confidence and good reputation are matters 
of concern to the inquirer. Who compiles this book nobody knows. 
The omniscient being who puts at the end of each name the cabalistic 
signs which indicate the precise amount of truth and honesty and solid 
bullion the firm in question is supposed to be operating upon, has never 
been seen or heard of. Who corrects the proofs is a mystery, and it is 
generally believed that they are left in a subterranean chamber under the 
fioor of the Royal Exchange, and that a council of departed spirits of 
governors of the Bank of England and Royal Exchange beadles revise 


A BUSY DAY 


199 


them in the dead of night. Nothing short of this would justify the im- 
plicit faith that is placed in those wonderful pages* 

The name of the firm of Bamberger & Alister, of whom Alister was 
the only visible representative, was entered in this book with four A-l’s 
after it, which conveyed to the initiated that if any banker, bill discounter, 
or trader wanted anything better than that the deceased governors of 
the Bank of England and the Royal Exchange Beadles would like to 
know what they did want. Bamberger & Alister were, in fact, accounted 
among the unimpeachable, and were good for a million. Bamberger & 
Alister accepted the position without a blush, and acted on it. 

It was a curious fact in the history of this very remarkable firm that 
no one had ever seen the senior partner, but it was still more extraordi- 
nary that no one ever thought the fact curious, until thinking of it had 
by circumstances become mere idle curiosity and a vain wish. When any 
one wanted to see Bamberger & Alister they were shown to Alister. He 
transacted the business, and what he promised Bamberger & Alister did. 
At first, when the firm was young (and it was never old) Bamberger was 
said to be in Scotland or in the States. Bamberger was delicate in health, 
and needed change ; but Alister was able to act, and he did act. The 
transactions of the firm were numerous and large ; its engagements were 
always met, and its operations and profits increased with the phenomenal 
rapidity of the flocks and herds of Israej,. So in like manner Alister had 
become bold, demonstrative, and resplendent, and pervaded the City with 
an air of authority. 

“ Well, ray dear Alister,” said the colonel, “the two usual questions : 
What’s your next appointment in the City? and has anything disagree- 
able happened ?” 

“I must be at the bank at 3,” said Alister, putting his hands in his 
trousers pockets in a manner that indicated composure of mind and gen- 
eral stability. “ There’s nothing to talk about,” he added, “ except that 
Cottindale has been blown upon.” 

“ How much have you with him ?” asked the colonel. 

“ Under five thousand,” was the reply, with perfect nonchalance. If 
it had been five half-ci’owns the little man could not have been more su- 
premely indifferent. 

The colonel nodded grimly, and ordered lunch to be served. Grilled 
soles, woodcock, and Johannisberg of the Castle was the colonel’s notion 
of gratifying the head and front of Bamberger & Alister, and he suc- 
ceeded. From beginning to end of the lunch Alister sang the praises of 
Delfoy’s cook and wine-merchant, and rose with a conviction that he was 
extremely fortunate in having for a friend so distinguished a Member of 
Parliament, who was also a profound master of gastronomy. 

Alister lighted a cigar ; and Delfoy, somewhat contrary to custom^ 
walked the room abstractedly, chewing a toothpick instead of smoking. 


200 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ How do you stand to-day, Alister ?” he asked, languidly. 

Alister drew from his pocket two sheets of paper. 

“ These,” said he, “ are maturing,” as he held up a long list of names, 
with many figures against them. “These,” he added, referring to a 
shorter list, “ are due on the 4th.” 

Delfoy drank another glass of Johannisberg, and asked for the total. 

“ The bills of the 4th are under £22,000,” said Alister. “ Those ma- 
turing amount to nearly £450,000.” 

“ What new bills have you?” 

“These; about £15,000. 

“ Then how much do you want?” 

“ Seven thousand, but you’d better make it eight.” 

“ Very good, my dear Alister, draw for the usual.” 

The usual appeared to be twice eight, or sixteen thousand. It was 
drawn on Bamberger & Alister, and already accepted, but the drawer’s 
name was left blank. As Delfoy took it he asked, 

“ And now, my dear Alister, how much unmatured Bamberger paper 
have I got, including this ?” 

“ Twenty-five thousand,” answered Alister, and with this answer he 
seemed disposed to relieve the situation by engaging in a sort of nervous 
laugh. 

He looked at the colonel with unusual interest as he saw him put the 
bill on the mantel-piece and dbver it with a bronze ape strangling an 
obese Japanese. He then turned, and with great solemnity wrote a check 
for £8000 payable to “ 5409 or bearer,” handed it to Alister, and drank 
another glass of Johannisberg. 

Alister crossed the check, and having put it into his pocket, prepared 
to leave ; but Delfoy lifted his finger and said, 

“ Wait a moment. Just one word.” 

The words and manner were dictatorial, and Delfoy ’s aspect the very 
reverse in appearance of what should have been produced by so delicate 
a lunch. His head came forward, and the right-hand forefinger assumed 
its most offensive dictatorial manner, as he stood before the mantel-piece, 
and therefore with his back to the bill and the bronze ape strangling the 
obese Japanese, as he asked, 

“ Have you refiected, my dear Alister, that your maturing bills are 
getting larger every day . in amount, and that the total is nOw very 
large ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you have remarked that Cottindale is being blown upon ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And what do you construe from these points ? 

Alister puffed out his chest, put his hands in his pockets, and looked 
profoundly wise. 


A BUSY DAT 


201 


“ You have uo answer, Alister,” said the colonel. “ Now, will you tell 
me your opinion of the general state of the City ?” 

Well, said Alister, with his eyebrows lifted and his lips pouting, 
“ there’s an uneasy feeling about, but it will blow over.” 

“ Is Cottindale likely to go ?” 

“ Not unlikely.” 

“ Johannisberg is a wonderful wine, my dear Alister,” broke in the 
colonel, after a brief silence. “ You should lay in a stock of it. It pulls 
a man together.” 

Alister nodded. He scarcely. saw the connection, but suspected there 
might be one. The colonel proceeded, 

“I’m nervous about Cottindale, my dear Alister. I don’t like the 
idea of his being talked about just now.” 

Alister shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Ah, my dear sir,” continued Delfoy, “ it’s serious — very. What 
would you do, my dear fellow, if your firm was given a shock by some 
unsuspected Cottindale ?” 

“ I never contemplate such a proposition. It’s impossible.” 

“ Stop, stop !” said the colonel, with the right forefinger in full action. 
“ How impossible ? I say it is not impossible. I go further, and say it’s 
not even improbable. More, it’s probable. More, it’s certain to come. 
Now what do you say ?” 

“ You astound me,” said Alister, and he looked it. 

“You should realize your position, Alister,” said the colonel, severely. 

“ Our position,” corrected Alister. 

“ No ; your position.” 

“ The position of Bamberger & Alister ?” said Alister. 

“Precisely — your position.” 

Alister laughed hysterically, as one might with a loaded revolver 
pointed at one’s head. He thought the colonel was joking; but the 
colonel turned, and putting his forefinger on the head of the homicidal 
ape, said, with most impressive gesture, 

“ Suppose we had not completed this little transaction just now, where 
would you be on the 4th ?” 

Alister was speechless. 

“You would be in the Gazette^ wouldn’t you?” asked Delfoy. 

“ Oh well, yes, if it comes to looking at it in that way.” 

“That is the way to look at it, my dear Alister. It’s the legal, proper 
way. Now tell me, where is Bamberger?” 

Alister laughed hysterically as he answered, 

“You are Bamberger.” 

Delfoy shook his head. 

“ You are my partner Bamberger.” 

“ No, my dear Alister, I am not. I have assisted you and your part- 


202 


THE VEILED HAND 


ner, Bamberger, whoever he is, by lending you money on your bills to 
meet your acceptances.” 

“You have taken the profits.” 

“ Wrong again. I have made profits on my advances, no doubt, but I 
have nothing to do with your profits. They are yours, not mine.” 

“You are my partner, and I’ll say so.” 

“No you won’t, Alister, and for two reasons. First, because, like 
George Washington, you never tell a lie ; and secondly, because, if you 
did tell that particular lie, it would do you no good.” 

Alister took up his hat and made for the door. 

“ No, Alister, not yet. Don’t act rashly. If you sit down a minute 
or two. I’ll tell you what is best for you, and what you will do when the 
time comes, as come it will. Be sure of that,” said the forefinger, “ and 
be calm.” 

“ But many firms will be ruined by such an event,” exclaimed Alister, 
helplessly. 

“ That’s unfortunate for the firms. They will suffer, my dear Alister, 
from the accidents of commerce. Survival of the fittest is a law in the 
City as elsewhere. You must never let your feelings get the better of 
you in commerce, Alister, as you know ; but I shall make it quite clear 
to you that I, at least, am . your friend ; and if you will allow me, I will 
show you how you can continue to live in comfort and luxury after the 
catastrophe which is in store for you. You, my. dear Alister, will go to 
Spain.” 

“ An absconding bankrupt !” 

“Ah ! that’s a rough way of putting it. Now, how much have you put 
away of your profits ?” 

“ Not a rap.” 

“That is imprudent of you; but never mind, you will go. to Madrid, 
where you will find an agreeable circle of the sporting element in com- 
merce enjoying themselves enormously.” 

“ Never, never !” he protested, vehemently. 

“ Yes, you will go, my dear Alister, and I’ll show you what will take 
you there.” 

He paid a visit to the Italian cabinet and produced a piece of tinted 
paper, delicate printed, and covered up in one part with a piece of cart- 
ridge. 

“This, my dear Alister,” said the colonel, delicately balancing the 
paper on both hands, “ will be yours by-and-by. It is a little provision I 
have made for you. It represents a little over £25,000, lying in the 
Bank of Spain at Madrid.” 

Alister held out his hand for it. 

“ Not yet,” said Delfoy. “ The time has not yet come, and you could 
not get the money even if I were to give this to you, for two reasons. 


A BUSY DAY 203 

You do not know the name of the person who has lodged it. You do 
not know the signature that will draw it.” 

Delfoy put the piece of paper along with the bill and reset the homi- 
cidal ape upon them. He smiled as he remarked the features of the 
obese Japanese. 

“ Now, my dear Alister, I’ll describe your programme,” said Delfoy, 
lighting a cigarette. “You will keep £40 in gold in a portmanteau 
ready packed, and when I send you a telegram containing a single name, 
'“poste restante^ Madrid,’ or anything else, as I may determine, you had 
better start immediately for the Continent; but don’t go straight to 
Madrid — go by Amsterdam, or Vienna, any way other than direct. And 
when you get to Madrid, call at the place I name in the telegram for a 
letter addressed to the name I shall telegraph. This piece of paper will 
be in the letter, and you also will be made acquainted in the same docu- 
ment with the name you will sign to get the money.” 

“ What will you do ?” asked Alister. 

“ Stop here. I shall have to look after my interests as a creditor of 
the firm of Bamberger & Alister !” 


Chapter XXXI 

•« 

THE PRIVATE SECRETARIES 

The Right Honorable Peter Finnessmore had a cold. How much of 
it was due to the atmosphere and relaxed membranes, and how much to 
Great Coradells, was a moot point. He was, however, reported in the 
public journals to be confined to his room with “ a bronchial affection, 
which phrase, it may be remarked in passing, was not used in reference to 
any tender emotion experienced by the Right Honorable Peter, but was 
designed by the newspaper scribe to convey to the “intelligent reader” 
that Mr. Finnessmore had a bad sore throat. The private secretaries ac- 
cordingly attended their chief at Bolore House instead of at Whitehall, 
and were engaged in Finnessmore’s business-room dealing with the morn- 
ing letters which had all been concentrated there. 

The principal private secretary was Mr. Edgar Quare, a young man 
of uncertain opinions, and prone to agree with any one who announced 
convictions. He was high-shouldered and loose-jointed, high-cheekboned 
and hook-nosed, with short stubby black hair, and a small mustache 
that he seemed always trying to pull out by the roots when he was 
troubled with a knotty point absolutely requiring a definite conclusion. 

It is the fate of the private secretary that he has not only to form 
opinions for himself as an ordinary member of society, but he has also 
to form opinions for his chief, and frequently to express them in writing 
without taking his chief into his confidence. This necessity materially 
added to the embarrassments of Mr. Quare, who underwent serious 
mental torture whenever complicated issues arose for solution, especially 
when, as happened on this particular morning, the questions involved 
matters of grave public concern mingled with private ambitions, and 
were further complicated by points of honor and considerations of his 
own future advancement. The little black mustache was being wrenched 
into a sharp projecting spike in the course of these mental throes. 

The majority of the letters had been disposed of by the writing of 
polite notes on official paper, and enclosed in a large official envelope, 
with the signature of the Right Horiorable Peter, written by Mr. Quare in 
the lower corner, and “ oflScial, paid ” in red letters instead of a postage- 
stamp to be afterwards affixed in the upper corner, the whole contriv- 
ance to be despatched with complimentary promptitude in the hope that 
it would allay the anxieties of the affiicted correspondent. Those in 


THE PRIVATE SECRETARIES 


205 


which “ Mr. Finnessmore had received Mr. Puddlechin’s communication, 
and regretted it was not in his power to comply with the request con- 
tained in it or in which “ Mr. Finnessmore had received Mr. Footey’s 
suggestion, and would give it the very fullest consideration or in which 
Mr. Finnessmore “thanks his valued correspondent;” or in which he 
politely tells his demented friend to go and hang himself at the first op- 
portunity, in language so ridiculously gracious and condescending that 
he will never understand what is required of him — these, and many other 
similar matters, were disposed of out of hand by Mr. Quare, ably assisted 
by Mr. Heritage, with becoming solemnity and in no time ; but the hard 
nuts still remained to be cracked, and Mr. Quare was under the impres- 
sion that their importance demanded a consultation. 

“ You see. Heritage, this Great Coradell of yours is becoming a regu- 
lar nuisance. There are nine letters about it to-day ; and if something is 
not done to stop ’em, they’ll increase.” 

Mr. Quare looked at them gloomily, and then at Philip, who had been 
escorting out of the Finnessmore arena half a dozen eccentric British 
subjects who had thought it worth while to thank Mr. Finnessmore for 
what he had said, or to suggest that he should say- something different 
from what he had said, or put something a little stronger, all of whom 
were bowed out with elaborate compliments on the official note-paper, 
enclosed in the official envelopes, signed in the corner by Mr. Quare with 
the name of Peter Finnessmore. 

Philip was rather staggered by the suggestion that the Great Coradell 
was his, a-nd not altogether gratified. He observed something of rebuke 
and evil reflection in the tone with which it was uttered, and being young 
and nervous, he became apologetic. He said he was very sorry, and was 
quite sure he would like to see an end of the matter. His‘ father, as 
he had already announced on previous occasions when the Great Coradell 
had become troublesome to Mr. Quare, was inundated with letters, under 
the impression that he was responsible for the misfortunes which seemed 
to dog the enterprise. Whether Philip would have been prompted to 
repudiate the suggestion that the mine was his if it had been prosperous 
is doubtful, but the point need not be discussed, and would most certain- 
ly never have arisen, because we may be sure if that the Great Coradell 
had been prosperous Mr. Quare would never have allowed for a moment 
that the mine was Philip’s in any way whatever. 

“ Now, here’s the fifth letter from the man Joy ; he says he isn’t going 
to sit still and be robbed by a member of the Government. Now that’s 
very awkward, you know. Heritage. There’ll be a row in the House 
about it soon if we don’t look out.” 

Philip repeated he was very sorry in tones that indicated he was also 
very helpless. 

“ You see, Heritage, this man Joy’s a desperate fellow. I’m sure he is 


THE VEILED HAND 


2,06 

by his language, and he’s a man of resource. He’s got half a dozen busi- 
nesses, and he apparently administers the lot of them himself. We shall 
not be able to shut up Joy, that’s clear.” 

Quare pulled his mustache violently. Joy had become an anxiety. 

“ Here’s another fellow named Vickers,” he continued, spasmodically. 
“ We can manage him, I think. He’s long-winded and bumptious, but 
less precise than Joy. They’re evidently working together though. I 
dare say they’re a couple of scoundrels,” concluded Quare, on no other 
grounds than that they were troublesome to him. 

At this point Mr. Julius Findley was announced — the departmental 
secretary from Whitehall. He was a smart man in dress, and sharp in 
feature and in manner, close shaven, close cropped, and quick in his 
glance, movements, and speech. Said he : 

“ Good -morning, Quare ; good-morning. Heritage. Anything fresh? 
Nothing fresh ? How’s the chief ?” 

Mr. Quare shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Quare, my friend,” exclaimed the new-comer, “you express the com- 
mon feeling. The situation is not agreeable.” 

“ I don’t like a man,” said Quare, “ who goes playing the fool in the 
City. It’s not fair to the others, and it’s not fair to us. What business 
has a member of the Government to go playing the fool in the City ?” 

“ No right,” said Fludley. “ We have a grievance, all of us. How do 
you feel. Heritage?” 

“Uncomfortable,” said Philip, advancing. 

“Naturally,” said Fludley, “a very proper feeling. We don’t blame 
you. We know the chief, and we know he led you into this affair. 
This precious Great Coradell will be Finnessmore’s ruin and the Govern- 
ment’s downfall in less than a month if some new turn is not given to 
the position. The Prime-minister is moving !” 

“ Is he ?” asked Mr. Quare, with alarm. 

“ He is. He’s been asking some nasty questions, and he will have his 
answers this afternoon.” 

“ Will he ?” said Quare, in still greater alarm. 

“ He will ; and I’ve come round to let the chief know.” 

“ Have you ?” said Quare, who began to regard his friend with extreme 
awe. Presently he jerked out the inquiry, “ Resignation ?” 

“ I should think so,” said Fludley. “ What else can it be ?” 

“ Ah !” said Quare ; and, after a pause, added, “ You're all right,” as 
if intimating that he himself was not. 

Then they all three looked at each other in silence. Philip was much 
disturbed. Youth and inexperience prevented him from fully appreci- 
taing the situation, and the predominating feeling with him was chagrin. 
He felt he was in some way responsible for the Great Coradell, and 
especially for the awkward position in which Finnessmore was placed with 


THE PRIVATE SECRETARIES 


207 


his colleagues. He was exceedingly glad to find Fludley didn’t accuse 
him, and had thrown all the blame on Finnessmore. 

“ They’re furious at the Colonial Ofiice,” said Fludley, who sat on the 
table and dropped out his information in scraps. “ I’m told the Cabinet 
were at it a whole hour yesterday afternoon. It will depend on what 
Finnessmore does as to whether representations will be made to him.” 

“ Who is likely to succeed him ?” asked Quare. “ Delfoy ?” 

Fludley shook his head and added : 

“ Won’t do. I don’t know why, but they seem to be afraid of him. 
He’s too much in with the other side, and he’s too clever. But they say 
you’d never catch him putting his name on a City prospectus.” 

“ No,” said Quare, assenting, and then they again reflected in silence. 

“ What, in your opinion, should Mr. Finnessmore do?” inquired Philip, 
who had been endeavoring to see light throughout this colloquy. He 
asked Fludley, who answered, emphatically, 

“ The Prime-minister says the only thing for him to do is' to make 
good the losses of the investing shareholders.” 

“ How can he do that ?” 

“ By buying their shares at par. He says the directors are bound to 
do that ; and Finnessmore especially, because he has made large profits 
on speculating for the fall.” 

“ So he has,” said Philip, looking rather angry. 

“ And you ?” said Fludley, with a sudden turn to Philip. 

“ Not a penny. I’ve not had a transaction. My father says it’s dis- 
honorable for directors to traflSc in their company’s shares.” 

At this point a servant entered with a note for Philip. He read it, 
and blushed as he looked up at Quare. It was from the Lady Alice, 
and while Fludley explained in official language to the Right Honorable 
Peter that his colleagues regarded him as a rascal, Philip discussed the 
situation with the Lady Alice. 


Chapter XXXII 
REACTION 

It is part of the universal economy that misfortunes always bring 
with them compensations, though, unfortunately, we seldom discover 
them, and frequently, if pointed out to us, we are too impatient to ad- 
mit of their existence. Sometimes it happens that the misfortunes be- 
come practically extinguished, or at least obliterated, by some comple- 
mentary emotion; and in that case we have no appreciation for anything 
but the rapture of the moment. Philip forgot the Great Coradell in 
the delight of being summoned by the Lady Alice, and he forgot more 
than that. 

The introduction of Delfoy to Muriel at the Bolore garden-party, 
which had passed so quietly, without leaving a single ripple on the 
surface, and had been perhaps the least observed of all the many inci- 
dents of the day, and, in proportion to its magnitude, the least suspected 
or imagined of anything that might have happened in the relations of 
that eminently decorous company, had cut deep down within the heart 
and nerves, and bid fair to strangle the very nature of the unhappy 
woman who had been wronged only because she had not suspected, and 
who suffered only because she was good. 

Ten years of watchful suppression of a fact, ten years of a haunting 
fear of disclosure, rising at times to the condition of acute suffering, so 
wore and frayed the poor sensitive nerves that they had become mere 
shreds and tatters long before the cruel wrench of the garden-party in- 
troduction and of the cold-blooded, sinister nonchalance of the man she 
had once loved. These shreds and tatters still held together, but they 
took a curious turn in their efforts to knit the frame and keep the 
living machine at work in seeming harmony. Muriel was light and 
even frivolous that night of the Bolore garden-party. She made airy 
jokes, and laughed at them extravagantly. She gave accounts of won- 
derful incidents that had not occurred, and described people in eccentric 
toilets that had not been there. And when corrected she seemed 
amused, and winked slyly, and they were all very merry over her high 
spirits, and said the visit had done mamma good. But next day she 
was peevish and dissatisfied, anxious about everybody around her, in- 
sisted that they were unwell, and prescribed the remedies for each, kept 
her room, and started at every sound as if fearing the approach of some 


REACTION 


209 


much dreaded enemy. Thus the days passed, alternating between exalta- 
tion and despondency, between exceeding caution and wild recklessness, 
between lively hopefulness and unreasoning fears; but always in ex- 
tremes, and always strained beyond all reason, and yet so like to reason 
that none suspected, till an outburst came, so startling and so terrible 
that Heritage thanked God none saw it but himself ; and it was resolved 
into an illness needing care and quiet, and in effect was concealed under 
that great mantle, “ the doctor’s orders,” which covers so much in our 
daily lives that is terrible and distressing, and beyond the capacity of man 
to fathom in its relation to the Father of Mercies and the Infinite in Love. 

All this and more Philip forgot when he was summoned by the Lady 
Alice. It was not that he was callous and indifferent, it was not even 
that he was thoughtless, but it was impossible he could consult his step- 
father while this shadow was upon him. Among the many great works of 
the passion called Love the most marvellous is the disposition it excites in 
its victims to exaggerate the judgment and experience of those whom its 
victim adores. Incontestably the Lady Alice was in Philip’s estimation 
the only person who should be consulted by him in this extraordinary po- 
litical and commercial combination in which he found himself involved. 

The Lady Alice was dressed for walking. She stood in the middle of 
the drawing-room waiting for her slave, as she buttoned her glove, and 
regarded him with a whimsical air as she said, 

“ Well, Philip, you’re looking as glum as the rest of them. What is 
it all about ?” 

Her gayety drove some of the gloom away, from Philip, but he 
showed no levity as he answered : 

“I’m afraid we cannot tell what’s the matter. It’s only during the 
last few minutes I have got at the beginning of it.” 

She shook her head gayly as she answered, 

“ I’m afraid you’re very young, Philip, and much in need of my 
guidance. That’s why I sent for you. I know all about it. My dis- 
reputable uncle has been at his old tricks again. I know him. That 
illness of his,” she continued, with a jerk of the head in the direction of 
the Right Honorable Peter’s room, “is a political one — a sort of diplo- 
matic distemper. I can advise you. Will you do as I wish ?” she asked, 
eagerly, earnestly, and with that piercing glance that, coming out of a 
face that a moment before was all smiles and levity, went straight to 
the heart of the questioned one. 

“ Most certainly.” 

“Then see your step-father while I am out with my mother, and 
meet me here at four while she is taking her nap. I want to know 
what he thinks should be done to keep your name from being mixed 
up with my uncle’s. Uncle’s my guardian and trustee, you know, but 
I’ve a very poor opinion of him. Now go quick before mamma comes.” 

14 


210 


THE VEILED HAND 


Philip exchanged a few words with Quare before leaving. 

“ Very obstinate,” said Quare, biting a pen. “ Says he’s too ill to 
discuss business. Findley doesn’t believe him, and Fludley is usually 
right. He’s got his head tied up, and has a lot of bottles round him. 
Fludley says he must have had a good breakfast, from the look of the 
empty plates lying about. Hearty appetite looks suspicious. Findley’s 
a very quick fellow. I suppose it’s all up ; but I don’t know. A fel- 
low can’t tell, you know, when he’s not certain about his facts.” 

Philip hurried off to Cavendish Square. He knew Heritage was at 
home, for ever since his mother’s illness the City had been a secondary 
consideration with his step-father. Heritage was singularly grave and 
pale. He took Philip by the hand, and clasped his shoulder as he said : 

“Your mother’s still very ill — still delirious — still incessantly talk- 
ing and singing and crying day and night, and it’s better you should 
not see her. It’s painful to see her, and her language is quite uncon- 
trolled by reason. But,” he added, more cheerfully, “ I’m glad you’ve 
come. I have something to say to you.” 

“Yes,” said Philip, gravely, “and I have something to say, but I’m 
loth to intrude upon you in the circumstances.” 

Heritage smiled as he said, 

“Sit down and let me hear. I guess the subject. The anticipated 
difficulty has arisen, eh?” 

Philip’s gratitude at having his task made easy shone upon his face 
through the gravity and sadness that enshrouded it. He had always 
venerated his step-father, but during the later years of their lives his 
feelings with regard to him had acquired that strongly-rooted sentiment 
of engrossing love that knows of no gauge capable of measuring it 
either in height, breadth, or depth. Unbounded respect for his knowl- 
edge and experience had grown with every day of their closer inter- 
course of these later times. He had never expressed these sentiments 
of unstinted trust and devotion chiefly because he was scarcely conscious 
that he was imbued with them. They were, indeed, part of his being, 
and involuntarily assumed the shape of active deference and considera- 
tion. 

Philip told the story of the practical failure of the Great Coradell 
scheme through the inanity of the directors, as he conceived the case ; 
and, in a measure, he defended Finnessmore, and announced with some 
enthusiasm that, with the assistance of Delfoy, the property would be 
worth about half the price paid for it. He told the story lamely, with 
hesitation and some shame, it was such a dismal mess. 

Heritage listened patiently, stroking his chin, and when Philip had 
finished, he said : 

“ I’m glad you have come to me. I have been expecting you ; and 
thinking you were fearful of making the disclosure, I had intended 


REACTION 


211 


opening the subject myself. It’s a very bad case, much worse than I 
suspected when our highly respectable friend Finnessmore submitted it. 
I like to suppose he believed what he said when he spoke first about the 
matter ; but having regard to what I have since heard of him, I cannot 
help doubting it.” 

Philip essayed to speak, when Heritage stopped him, saying : 

“ No, don’t tell me anything about him. You may be betraying con- 
fidences. Let me tell you what I have done, and what you should do 
to put matters right.” 

Philip was much relieved at this, and clasped his hands between his 
knees in his anxiety and earnestness. 

“ It was impossible,” continued Heritage, “ that I could let you em- 
bark in an enterprise of this kind without taking some steps to enable 
me to protect you if protection were needed; and when I found there 
was a disposition to use your name as if it were mine, and when I found 
the company -mongering fraternity into whose hands you had fallen 
were unscrupulous enough to put it about casually and indefinitely that 
I was personally interested in the scheme, I made up my mind to do two 
things. I resolved to procure accurate information about the property, 
and to get such control of the company, by purchasing in the open 
market, as would enable me to prevent the wreckers from reaping a 
second harvest out of the ruin they have created. There,” said Heritage, 
pointing to a large packet of blue papers on his writing-table, “ is a 
truthful report of the property ; and it will surprise you to hear that at 
one time it all belonged to your trusted hope, Mr. Delfoy.” 

Philip started as if he had been struck. 

“You have nothing to look for in that quarter. Delfoy sold it to 
another, who sold it to you-; and as everything connected with the 
transaction is perfectly regular, you cannot go back upon the bargain. 
Delfoy, too, is a subscriber to your company, and on the surface a loser 
by your mismanagement. The property, however, is not bad in itself. 
It is probably better even than any of those who perpetrated the swindle 
have any conception of. What it needs is a railway, and to make a 
railway will cost as much money as you have already drawn from the 
public for the thing itself. You have, therefore, bought a white ele- 
phant. Colonies, however, move fast, and in ten years’ time the property 
may be, and probably will be, worth all you paid for it.” 

That was a relief for Philip, who breathed again. 

“ Now,” continued Heritage, “ I come to the next step. Having satis- 
fied myself about the property, I ordered the purchase of the stock of 
the company ; and as no one else would buy it, I hear this morning that 
I am possessed of the power to call up more than there is in existence, 
and I mean to have it delivered to my brokers. The price I have paid 
for it will make the property a cheap purchase for me,” 


212 


THE VEILED HAND 


Philip began to smile. 

“ So much for the business aspect of the affair,” said Heritage, who 
w’as losing some of his sombreness, and he even smiled. He became 
stern again as he added, “But there is your honor! You have been 
associated with a parcel of swindlers and City blacklegs, and have been 
used by them to rob the investing public according to law. You must 
rub off the pitch with which you have defiled yourself through associat: 
ing with these noble lords and right honorable gentlemen who do not 
think it unbecoming to lend their names to felonious transactions of 
this sort, under the protection of figments of law ; and I can show you 
how you can* do so.” 

He paused, and drew from the bundle of papers a formal looking 
draft of a letter that he said Philip must sign ; and when signed, should 
issue. It was an announcement that Philip Heritage was prepared to 
buy at par all shares in the Great Coradell held at that date by share- 
holders who had subscribed to the original allotment on the faith of the 
prospectus, and who had not otherwise disposed of their shares. When 
he had read the paper. Heritage said : 

“ This will not be a complete wiping out of the stain, but you cannot 
go further without running the risk of playing into the hands of the 
rascals who have deceived you and the shareholders. The chances, 
however, are that all the poorer people, and those who can least afford 
to be swindled, still have their shares. Those who have sold at a loss 
cannot be reached.” 

He paused, and then said, with some bitterness : 

“ And now I have to show you how I intend to punish these rascals 
with whom you have been associated. Every one of them has been 
selling heavily as I have been buying. They will have to deliver, and 
the effect of this circular of yours will be to send the price bounding up. 
Your right honorable chief, Philip — who is a scoundrel, mark you; and 
for whose introduction to you I admit I am responsible, and therefore, 
to blame — will have to buy at the high price to deliver to me, or pay 
over the difference ; and such will be the scramble to get out that every 
one among them will suffer heavily. I expect to sweep out of their 
greedy maws every penny they have gained. After this we must recon- 
struct the company, and put it on an honest footing. Now sign.” 

Philip signed in silence, and trembled. He regarded his step-father 
with awe. 

“Now, Philip,” said Heritage, “don’t let a whisper of this pass your 
lips. Leave this paper with me, and don’t resign your seat at the 
board. By-the-way, make it a rule, my boy, never to resign any position 
until you can honestly say you leave a clear bill behind you.” 

But what of the Lady Alice ? Philip had clean forgotten all about 
her, and it was five o’clock. 


Chapter XXXIII 
SEVERAL SORTS OF JOY 

“ My dearest Alice,” wrote Philip, with all the confidence and en- 
thusiasm of one who had no doubt about the terms on which he stood 
to the lady he addressed, — “ I am dreadfully distressed at my non-return 
to your feet, according to appointment, but I am sure you will forgive 
me when I tell you that my failure was occasioned by the time I was 
obliged to spend in fulfilling your first dear commands. Oh that I could 
express to you how glad I am I took your advice, and how wonderfully 
my father fulfilled all our expectations, or perhaps I should say your ex- 
pectations, for it was you and not I who proposed an appeal to him. 
His generosity is equal to his wisdom, and he has given me a most pre- 
cise and yet simple programme, by following which my honor will be 
saved and all will be done exactly as I think you would have it. I am 
overjoyed, and long for the moment when I can tell you all about it. I 
am not to whisper the details to any one,” he continued, and then sud- 
denly stopped, considered, and concluded that this last sentence would 
be shockingly offensive to his angel of wisdom and prudence. He drew 
his pen through it, then imagined the dearest one would read it notwith- 
standing, and having obliterated it utterly, was afraid she would be of- 
fended at such an exhibition of want of trust in her as was exhibited by 
a laboriously erased line. He accordingly fell to writing the entire letter 
again, and was haunted all through by the presumption that he was de- 
ceiving her by omitting the sentence. He continued the note with the 
feeling that he was a dastardly criminal, and dashed to the end, with 
protestations of undying love, without saying a single word about 
the Right Honorable Peter, or giving any hint of what was in store 
for him. 

Apart from his step-father’s injunction of secrecy, he was not quite 
sure that the Lady Alice would be as pleased as she had professed she 
would be at her uncle’s discomfiture, and Philip proved once more in the 
history of the human race that lovers are usually cautious in the pursuit 
of their object. 

During the compilation of this interesting and withal joyful letter an 
incident having a close connection with the matter it dealt with was be- 
ing enacted in a different portion of the town. The actors were Mr. 
Geoffrey Delfoy, M. P., Mr. Alpheus Vickers, and the owner of the shop 


214 


THE VEILED HAND 


in which the interview occurred, to wit, Matthew Joy, pork-butcher, baker, 
and general purveyor of all kinds of provisions. 

“ He’s come, you see, Joy,” said Vickers, heralding his companion. 
“ I told you he would. Mr. Delfoy, Member of Parliament, Joy ; here 
he is, come to assist you, Joy, as a public man and fellow-sufferer with 
you, Joy.” 

The exuberant Vickers beamed and swelled and bowed and ladled out 
the Member of Parliament to the pork-butcher as if he were so much 
sauce to the pork-butcher’s substance ; and the pork-butcher spread out 
his portly figure and planted his knife on the block with a British sub- 
ject air, and looked defiance at the Member of Parliament, not because 
he was not gratified by the presence of the Member and proud to receive 
him, but because the indignation of the British subject was paramount; 
and being thus placed, the pork-butcher burst upon the Member with an 
oration : 

“Pm proud to see you here, sir,” said Joy. “Friend Vickers said you 
would come, but I did not believe him — no, I did not." 

Mr. Joy stuck the large carving-knife held in his left hand into the 
chopping-block and frowned with a furious aspect. 

“ Public men,” he continued, “ are not public men. They’re private 
men, selfish men, grinding their own axe, and leaving the people whom 
they profess to serve to grind their millions of axes without a grindstone 
among the whole lot. How can they grind their axes without a grind- 
stone ? It can’t be done ; but if you are prepared to assist the people in 
resisting fraud and imposition, I honor you, sir, and I honor friend Vickers 
for bringing you here.” 

With this the pork-butcher put down his knife, and having wiped 
his hands on his white apron, extended them to his two visitors and 
shook hands with them. Delfoy was by this action encouraged to ex- 
press a hope that the pork-butcher was well, and Joy answered with some 
asperity, 

“ Well, if it comes to that, I am well ; but look you here, sir, I ask 
you now, as a Member of Parliament, looking at me in my own shop, 
standing in my own premises, do you think I’m the sort of person who 
should be hauled up to the Marylebone Police-court because I have my 
own particular way of looking after my own family ?” 

Delfoy was rather upset by this question. He was not quite clear as 
to its pertinence, having regard to the purpose of his visit. He regarded 
the floor modestly, with his head perked very much forward, and threw 
out a doubtful, 

“ Well, no, I should say not, Mr. Joy.” 

“ No,” said the pork-butcher, “ you should say not. Now I dare say 
you, as a Member of Parliament, would want to make out that Acts of Par- 
liament are wise and proper in all cases, and that any man as acts cont’ry 


SEVERAL SORTS OF JOY 


215 


to them is a bad man, to be hauled up as I have this day been hauled up 
at the Marylebone Police-court ?” 

“ No,” said Delfoy, with hesitation, and with his eye accidentally resting 
on the scales. 

“ No, it wasn’t light weight, Mr. Delfoy, nor nothing so sensible or 
proper as the correcting of weights and measures by the public authority 
so entitled to do. It’s the school board as ’as been at me, because it seems 
to think it knows better how to educate my children than I do, and I 
want to know why I should be hauled up to the Marylebone Police-court 
for educating my children in my way, when you, as a Member of Parlia- 
ment, living in a large private house, as I suppose you do, with a knocker 
on the outside and a hall porter on the inside, can do as you like without 
having any interference by the school board in the way you educate your 
children, supposin’ you have some.” 

Delfoy shook his head, and was about to suggest a change of subject, 
when the pork-butcher took the action for a disclaimer of offspring, and 
dashed ahead with his argument, foaming and blustering all about the 
shop. 

“ No, you have no children ; but I have, and I’ll show them to you. 
Walk this way, gents. I’ve got seven children, all hale and hearty so 
far as six of ’em’s concerned ; and the seventh, being only a week old, 
promises well. This way, gents.” 

They went into a little parlor at the back of the shop ; and the pork- 
butcher opening the doorway, shouted with terrific force up a narrow 
and precipitous staircase, 

“ ’Arriet, bring down Alfred to see some gentlemen — sharp.” 

Returning, he announced with great show of indignation, as if he had 
been systematically contradicted by his audience : 

“ I want you to understand, gentlemen, and particular you, Mr. Delfoy, 
as a Member of Parliament, that my children are educated from the day 
of their birth to fill that station of life in which they are born, and no 
other, because it’s a good station, and because it’s their station, and be- 
cause it’s nobody else’s station. And mark you, gentlemen, I don’t want 
to go educating my children in the calling of other people, such as sol- 
diering, which I don’t hold with, or with the law, which is an instrument 
of discord, or with physicking, which is a mere mending and patching 
job ; but I educates my children in carrying on them things that men and 
women lives by and must have — the eating and drinking, gents — the go- 
ing to and fro and the living and moving agents as constitutes the power 
and the strength and the GO, gents, of the entire human family. And 
here you observe,” continued the pork-butcher, directing attention to the 
doorway, “is my eldest, Alfred Light Joy, aged twelve.” 

He was a short, stout boy, very red in the face, dressed in the garb of 
a butcher, with a steel hanging from his girdle and a large knife in his 


216 


THE VEILED HAND 


hand, looting as solemn as any middle-aged butcher in all London. He 
was accompanied by a very anxious woman, obviously a sister to Mr. Joy, 
bearing a toy bullock about two feet long, scored all over with lines, 
which she carefully placed on the table. 

“ Now,” said the pork-butcher, “ Alfred Light Joy is going to be a 
butcher, and what do I do? I t,each him his trade. He can read, write, 
cipher up to rule of three ; and, gents — you especially, Mr. Delfoy, being 
a Member of Parliament — he can cut up a bullock, and tell you every 
joint in the bullock’s body, and you shall see him do it. Yes,” exclaimed 
the pork-butcher, as he observed an indication of revolt upon the part of 
the Member, “you shall see him do it.” 

There was no resisting the pork-butcher. The imitation bullock was 
solemnly laid on a table by Harriet Joy, who, having discharged her func- 
tion as conductor, retired into a corner of the room, and looked on with 
a beaming countenance at the proceedings of her resplendent brother and 
her promising nephew. Joy also retired from the table, and, with out- 
spread arms, walked backward from the youthful butcher as if he would 
keep back the advancing crowd, consisting of the two visitors, and im- 
press all present with the importance of giving the delineator room. 
Alfred Light Joy, in the centre of the arena, turned round, flourished 
his knife in the air, made one or two passes on the steel, and then, turn- 
ing to the wooden bullock, divided the carcass by inserting the knife in 
the cracks. As he separated the effigy the joints were laid out and 
named by the small butcher with the gravity of an archdeacon. 

“ There,” said the pork-butcher, “ is that education ? My sister teaches 
’em their school learning, and I’m hauled up at the Marylebone Police- 
court. ’Arriet, bring Benjamin.” 

The next boy, aged ten, was announced as “ Benjamin Air Joy,” and 
the pork-butcher informed the Member of Parliament that his children 
were taught their alphabet by the agency of the baptismal font, so far as 
circumstances permitted. “ If I had twenty-six of ’em, gents, I should 
name ’em alphabetical,” said the parental Joy. “ ‘ A’ for ‘Alfred,’ ‘ B’ 
for ‘ Benjamin.’ ” 

“Excellent idea,” said the colonel, nodding his head, “most admirable. 
A, B, C, Mr. Vickers, as you see.” 

“ Right, sir. My children, gents, are named alphabetical, as you say, 
sir, and with a second name taken from the great mysteries of life. Al- 
fred Light Joy and Benjamin Air Joy you see before you. Charles Water 
J<^y» Havid Earth Joy, and Edmund Iron Joy are up-stairs learning the 
multiplication table, while Fanny Mind Joy is in the nursery with Matilda 
Ann; and Gertrude Soul Joy, being one week old, is with her mother. 
And yet, if you please, gents. I’m hauled up at the Marylebone Police- 
court because I don’t educate my children by Act of Parliament. Is 
that right, sir ?” 


SEVERAL SORTS. OF JOY 


217 


“ Certainly not,” said Mr. Delfoy, who at last saw his chance. “ The 
action of the school board is most improper. You are the victim, Mr. 
Joy, of a mechanical system that is a disgrace to a civilized community.” 

“ Give me your hand,” shouted Joy, “ I’m proud to shake the hand of 
a Member of Parliament who has sound views on the education of youth, 
and does not approve of the anxious parent being dragged up to the 
Marylebone Police-court.” 

Having secured the Member’s hand, Joy dealt with it after the manner 
of a butcher and a parent of energy. 

“ Quite right, quite right,” gasped Delfoy between the spasms of an- 
guish caused by the manual wrench of the butcher ; “ but what we came 
to see you about was the Great Coradell.” 

“The Great Coradell,” exclaimed the butcher, at once hurling the 
Marylebone Police-court, the wooden bullock, and the entire family to 
a distance, “ is a monstrous swindle by a member of the Government. 
I’ve written to him to tell him so. He’ll not answer me. Mr. Delfoy,” 
continued the pork butcher, solemnly, “ friend Vickers has brought you 
here to talk of the Great Coradell. What about the Great Coradell ? 
Am I to get my money back ?” 

“Certainly,” said Delfoy — “certainly. You are entitled to it. We 
are resolved to put down these gross impositions ; and you, Mr. Joy, are 
the man to assist, because you are a courageous man.” 

“ I am, sir,” roared the pork-butcher, shaking his fist, “ that I am.” 

“Yes, you are a courageous man, Mr. Joy,” said Delfoy, “and as re- 
gards this interference of the school board with your system of educa- 
tion, I’ll see the vice-president of the council, and have an exception 
made from the routine in your case. But, Mr. Joy, you must remember 
that you are an exceptional man ; and if all parents were like you, there 
would be no need of school boards.” 

“ Oh,” gasped the pork-butcher, glaring out of the shop window, as 
he surveyed the skies in deep thought. “ That’s it, is it ? I see. I’m 
uncommon.” 

“ Very uncommon,” said the colonel, who had at last discovered an 
anchorage. “Your friend Mr. Vickers will come back this afternoon 
and tell you how to act about the Great Coradell, and you may in all 
things rely upon my support as a fellow-sufferer.” 

They shook hands with the pork-butcher and left. 

Later in the day Mr. Barcham was honored with another client in pur* 
suit of the directors of the Great Coradell. 


Chapter XXXIV 


A MODEL HEIR 

The issue of what became known as the Heritage circular in connec- 
tion with the Great Coradell produced all the effects the head of the 
house of Heritage anticipated, and a few more results that no human 
being of finite perceptions could have imagined possible. The antici- 
pated rise came with a bound. If the house of Heritage would buy at 
par the holdings of all original shareholders there was something in 
Great Coradell. That is what the Stock Exchange said ; so everybody 
bought who could persuade any one else to sell, and Great Coradells 
were again at a premium. 

So far so good for Heritage ; but others saw a chance in this marvel- 
lous change in public confidence, brought about by what Morris Heritage 
regarded as a simple act of justice. The “ City ” would have required a 
visit from the Archangel Gabriel, supported by the best bankers’ refer- 
ences, before it, as a commercial entity, would have believed in the pos- 
sibility of any one paying par for anything on any other grounds than 
that it was worth it ; and it is a curious fact in the ethics of commerce 
of the stock- jobbing order that if any man of ordinary probity and 
accepted honesty were to go to the door of the Exchange and openly 
announce an intention of doing a given thing nobody would be found in 
the whole commercial world to believe that he intended doing it, but 
each and all of them would ponder over the statement he had made, in 
the hopes of discovering what actual intention this most pretentious lie 
was designed to cover. Heritage himself, it must be admitted, had 
profited by this curious hallucination, and in moments of confidence he 
had frequently stated to his intimates that he had made many thousands 
of pounds during his career by simply telling the truth to men he knew 
to be liars, and who supposed every one else to be like themselves. 

Among the unexpected results of the Heritage circular was the 
awakened zeal of the Coradell board, following on the Coradell rise. 
They met, and, led off by the Right Honorable Peter, they subscribed 
the capital' necessary for the purchase of Colonel Delfoy’s land among 
themselves. The fact was duly chronicled in The City Tripod, with a 
most exhilarating eulogium upon the probity, foresight, and energy of 
the directors, and up went the shares still higher, so that no ordinary 
investor would sell, not even Mr. Joy the pork-butcher; and as for Lit- 


A MODEL HEIR 


219 


tercan, he declared in the most forcible language of his vocabulary that 
he had “ know’d it all along.” 

The members of the board who were not otherwise engaged at this 
time made a point of appearing as often and as much as possible in the 
public thoroughfares, within a radius of half a mile of Old Broad Street, 
with the composed air of men who feared nothing, and were rather 
proud of themselves than otherwise. At the same time they were sell- 
ing at the high price as fast as possible, and recouping themselves for 
their contribution to the capital necessary to acquire the colonel’s land- 
It is needless to add that Heritage did not join in this stampede; but, in 
the language of the Stock Exchange, “ sat tight,” and waited for the set- 
tling day. 

Another and still more curious result of the Heritage circular was a 
letter from Mr. Delfoy in the Albany to Mrs. Delfoy in Carlton Gardens, 
where she held her court during the season, requiring her to arrange for 
a select dinner-party of twelve to celebrate a domestic triumph. The 
same note requested her also to issue the invitations to Mr. and Mrs. 
Chippering and Mr. Bowdler, M.P., while he would enclose the cards to 
his father and mother and sister, and four others whom he did not 
name. The nameless ones proved to be his old friends Mr. Montague 
Bray and Mr. Shout and his new friends Mr. Alpheus Vickers and Miss 
Laura Vickers. 

Geoffrey Delfoy had recovered his position by sheer audacity, and 
there was something of the audacious in his manner of celebrating the 
triumph he had achieved. The idea of associating Miss Laura Vickers 
at the same table with his mother was his notion of a humorous revenge 
for sundry aspersions the Lady Grace had seen fit to cast upon him 
concerning his league with vulgar commerce, coupled with her readiness 
to participate in the proceeds resulting from the obnoxious companion- 
ship. The Lady Grace had declared she would never forgive Geoffrey, 
and Geoffrey thought he would show his mother one or two City in- 
struments of the more humble sort to provoke a flow of superlatives of 
indignation on her part, and at the same time show her what her dear 
Geoffrey had endured in the shape of grovelling companionship in the 
achievement of a family ambition. By some means, probably the 
loquacity of her daughter-in-law, the Lady Grace got wind of what was 
in store for her, and she and her daughter, now grown wizen and dys- 
peptic, stayed at home. 

The evening began by a connubial altercation — an incident of rare 
occurrence owing to the very few opportunities for communication of 
any sort open to Mrs. Delfoy. The pair had not met since she had 
made an ineffectual attempt to procure an interview with her husband 
in the Albany ; and this incident was the occasion of remonstrances on 
the part of Delfoy and indignation on the part of his wife, prefaced by 


220 


THE VEILED HAND 


a preliminary skirmish, but all proceeding from cause to effect in the 
most natural manner. They met in the drawing-room. Mrs. Delfoy, 
still afflicted by a preference for colors and ends, and surrounded by a 
black poodle, shaven after the French fashion, and three pugs of vary- 
ing degrees of fatness, saluted her husband with volatile grace. Delfoy 
nodded indifferently and rang the bell. A footman appeared, to whom 
he said, as if casually, 

“ Set for twelve.” 

“ My dear !” exclaimed the lady of the house. 

“ Set the table for twelve,” repeated Delfoy, and the footman left the 
room. 

“ Do you keep deaf servants, Mrs. Delfoy ?” asked the Member of 
Parliament. 

“You are a brute,” said the lady; but remembering her rouge, she 
checked the growing tear. 

“ If I am a brute, why do you come to my chambers to provoke me ?” 
he inquired. 

“ I’ll never come again.” 

“ I’m glad to hear it,” was the rejoinder. “ Very glad ; I shall be 
relieved of at least one annoyance in the future.” 

In another moment the tears of vexation would have been past con- 
trol, but Mr. and Miss Vickers were announced, and smiling graciousness 
took the place of angry passion as Delfoy remarked, 

“ I have been apologizing to my dear wife. Miss Vickers, for having 
asked your father to bring you without her having previously made your 
acquaintance, and I must now apologize to you on the same ground. I 
trust you will be equally as gracious as my dear wife, and grant me your 
pardon.” 

Laura had become a tall, striking-looking woman, with a profusion of 
dark brown hair, large dark eyes, very much on the alert, and a moder- 
ately sized pouting mouth. She presented a general appearance of 
cheerfulness, while at the same time she gave one the impression, in the 
vocabulary of her usual companions, of being “ all there.” 

She made a most graceful bow, almost verging upon a courtesy, and 
then quite spoiled the performance by saying, in rather a hoarse voice, 
“ Granted, sir.” 

Delfoy indulged his emotions consequent upon this catastrophe by a 
grim smile, which he dexterously hid by his complimentary bow. 

It is fortunate for Laura that the spirited Mr. Shout was not present 
during this incident. He had taken great pains with Laura in educating 
her for the stage — hence the finish of her drawing-room obeisance ; but 
having no written part in the contingency that had arisen, and being 
quite ignorant of the etiquette that had been trangressed, she had only 
her own resources to fall back upon, and they were insufficient. She 


A MODEL HEIR 


221 


was, however, perfectly happy, and quite delighted at finding herself in 
the sumptuous drawing-room, with the knowledge that the “model” 
dress in claret silk which she had “ picked up cheap ” in Oxford Street 
only the day before was quite equal to the situation. Whatever may 
have been wanting, and apparently nothing was, her father’s speech 
would have supplied it, as he passed his hand over his forehead and 
exclaimed: 

“ Mr. Delfoy, sir. I’m proud to think you should have honored me and 
my daughter by an invitation on this special occasion, as you term it, 
in this magnificent mansion. I am proud, Mr. Delfoy, because I feel 
that your perspicacity has penetrated the obscurity that veils the per- 
sonality of Alpheus Vickers, and has recognized that he is sterling, sir — 
sterling — and I know you will always find him so.” 

With this Mr. Vickers held out his hand; and Delfoy, grasping it and 
bowing with an uncommon gravity, said he was sure he might always 
rely on his friend’s countenance and support. 

“You see, madam,” said Mr. Vickers to Mrs. Delfoy, who continued 
to be all smiles and graciousness, “ your husband’s distinguished position 
and his great wealth lay him open to much deception, and but for his 
perspicacity and acumen he would become a prey to continual deception. 
The great capitalist, madam, always lives in an atmosphere of envy and 
dissimulation, and is the constant prey of avarice — some even say the 
natural and legitimate prey of the avaricious and impecunious.” 

Mrs. Delfoy smiled and said, “ How singular — really,” and seemed 
quite interested in the phenomenal Geoffrey Delfoy, as of some one 
wholly disassociated from her surroundings. Laura looked on, basking 
in the evidences of wealth around her, and found the part sketched for 
her by Mr. Shout exceedingly agreeable and easy, which was “ to keep 
her mouth shut and smile around as if she liked being there.” 

The arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Chippering, the latter somewhat infirm, 
and resting on her husband’s arm from sheer necessity, put a stop to 
the delivery of further compliments by Mr. Vickers. The head of the 
house of Delfoy, also much stricken by time, or what amounted to the 
same thing, by worry, irritation, and non-success, was led to Mrs. Delfoy 
by her incomparable husband, with apologies for the absence of his 
mother and sister. And then came the resonant Marmaduke Bray, who 
by mere strength of larynx took possession of the entire company, and 
gilded the veriest platitudes with a grace of oratory that made them pass 
for Johnsonian apothegm. Mrs. Delfoy declared that Mr. Bray was a 
sweet man and full of poetry, but Squarely, a coarse fat man, who wrote 
for The Frivol and was jealous, said it was blatant rubbish. 

Mr. William Shout and Mr. Bowdler made up the party, and when 
they had all taken their places in the dining-room, Geoffrey Delfoy os- 
tentatiously ordered the removal of the vacant chair on his right, which 


222 


THE VEILED HAND 


brought Laura Vickers next to him, and made things more agreeable if 
less amusing to his cynical nature than the realization of his original 
scheme, which had included the presence of his mother. Bray, sitting 
on the hostess’s right, had an admirable audience, with Mr. Vickers op- 
posite and Bowdler on his right. Squarely sat on the other side of 
Bowdler, and being a gourmand, was perfectly content to let Bray talk 
while he ate. As Delfoy the elder was a silent man. Squarely was glad 
to be next him, for, being undisturbed at his trough, he managed to 
secure a second service of three of the dishes without attracting observa- 
tion. Mrs. Chippering sat opposite Laura and next her son-in-law, whom 
she was desperately afraid of ; and Shout sat on the other side of Laura, 
with Chipperin'g on his right. 

Looking round the table, and contemplating the various parts each of 
his guests had played in his recent triumphs, Geoffrey Delfoy was 
mightily amused, and looked forward to more striking developments by 
the handling of the same material. One or two oT the company had 
been told that the occasion was, special, but in what way no one had any 
conception. This was known only to the host, and he waited until the 
dessert was on the table before he enlightened them. 

“ Now, my friends,” said he, retaining his seat, “ I have something to 
say to you of great interest to me and my family, and I hope to all here 
this evening.” 

This remark hushed even the oratorical Bray, who was in the middle 
of a sonnet of Byron’s, and was rapidly reducing his hostess to a state 
of moral subjection. Delfoy proceeded : 

“ I have to announce to you — this select family circle of my intimate 
friends — that you have all contributed in ways you have probably no 
conception of in enabling me to achieve the ambition of my life. I 
regret my dear mother and my dear sister are not present and will not 
be made acquainted with what I am about to communicate until my very 
dear father reaches home this evening. They would have been here, but 
you will observe that if they had been with us there would have been 
thirteen at the table, and my dear mother has views on that subject. 
Neither my dear mother nor my dear sister would come without the 
other, although, as they had the option of changing their minds at the 
last moment, I had a chair placed for one here on my right hand. I 
could not meet the case otherwise, as I had eleven acceptances; and 
others, such as Lord Feeldmore and dear old Huckle and one or two 
more were obliged to decline.” 

Delfoy paused, and looked very gravely at the decanters. Every one 
was listening with breathless interest and almost amazement at the idea 
of their being personally concerned in this family matter, whatever it 
was. The only person whose feelings were undisturbed was Delfoy the 
elder, and he seemed almost unconcerned. He had given Geoffrey up 


A MODEL HEIR 


223 


long ago ; and was content to take his allowance and deplore the deca- 
dence of the country on the well-established grounds set forth in the 
opening chapters of this record. 

“ Yes,” continued Geoffrey, “ this is a great epoch in my family his- 
tory. It is to you, my very dear father, and you, my very dear wife, 
that I wish particularly to address myself. “ Dubley,” he continued, 
turning to his valet, whom he had requested to appear at the close of 
the dinner, “fetch me a brown paper parcel I have left on the librarv 
table.’.’ 

There was another distressing silence. 

“ Oh, Mr. Bray,” exclaimed the hostess, in a despairing whisper, “ is he 
going to commit suicide ?” 

“ Your husband, Mrs. Delfoy,” said the editor, imperiously, “ is a gen- 
ius. Have patience.” 

Dubley returned with the parcel; and Geoffrey Delfoy, rising from his 
seat, said, with a quivering voice, which indicated emotion of a high 
order : 

“Here, my very dear father and my very dear wife, are the title 
deeds of the Hanswick and Luckross estates. I have won them back 
from the rapacious maw of the money-lender; and I trust I shall have 
the pleasure of seeing you, my very dear father, take up your residence 
in the halls of your ancestors for the rest of your days. May they be 
long and happy.” 

As he said this he held out his hand to his father, who at first scarcely 
appreciated the magnitude of the announcement ; and when he did com- 
prehend it, he seemed struck with an aspect of amazement, which grad- 
ually gave way to a paroxysm of senile joy as he cried out incoherently, 
midst tears and sighs : 

“ Oh ! Geoffrey — boy — my son ! Oh ! amazing — yet how like Geof- 
frey ! Oh ! my friends, pardon me — yes, like Geoffrey — yes, so like my 
boy — at last, at last !” 

And then he sat and wept, with his head resting on his hands, and 
trembling with an emotion altogether genuine. Coming, as the incident 
did, after long years of waiting and striving, of anxiety and deception, of 
recklessness and shiftlessness, of brutal indifference and utter selfishness ; 
and coming, as it did, when all hope was gone, and when the pride of the 
family had been bruised and broken, and altogether driven from his nat- 
ure — the miserable old man was crushed by the sudden joy, and groaned 
for very weakness and with the despair of a dying reaper with the sic- 
kle in his hand ! 


Chapter XXXV 
BOWDLER’S MISSION 

Mr. Shout’s anxiety regarding the drawing-room deportment of Laura 
Vickers, and the corresponding disposition of the young lady herself to 
rely upon his guidance in the novel regions in which she found herself, 
led to an early departure from the dining-room on the part of Shout ; 
and Marmaduke Bray’s success with his impressionable hostess caused 
him early to follow, without waiting for the return of Delfoy. 

Shout’s injunction to Laura to keep her mouth shut and look pleased 
did not, in her opinion, extend to confidences between the two, and she 
took advantage of a tete-a-tete to express her views on the situation in 
her own peculiar way. She first confided to her friend that it was a 
“ regular slap-up place and when Shout suggested that “ delightful ” 
would be a more appropriate encomium, she responded by remarking 
that “ the old gent seemed uncommon flummuxed, and no wonder 
and despite Shout’s correction that she should say his emotions had 
overcome him, she pursued her reflections by remarking that “Delfoy 
must be no end of a stunner,” but that his wife “ was rather a softie.” 

Before Shout could administer further correction or advice Mrs. Del- 
foy was seen bearing down upon them wreathed with smiles, and trailing 
a gigantic feather fan over her left shoulder. Shout rose in despair, and 
she took his seat, with a tremendous sigh and a craning of the neck 
that threatened dislocation, as she remarked, in her best company ac- 
cents : 

“ My dear husband is very much upset. They have put his father to 
bed in the south room, and Dubley has gone to tell the Lady Grace he 
would stay the night. These occurrences are most trying to the nerves, 
my dear.” She appealed to Miss Vickers, who suddenly remembered two 
words in “The Renunciation” which she used to speak when on tour with 
Shout, and which she thought sufficiently appropriate to deliver at this 
juncture. She did so promptly. 

“ Most noble !” she exclaimed ,’ and then, feeling the observation was 
not quite so appropriate as she had supposed, and that it needed some 
kind of explanation, she added, with uncommon emphasis, “ Your hus- 
band’s a regular trump, Mrs. Delfoy : I could hug him.” 

“ Indeed,” said the lady of the house, with a start and a sudden quiv- 
er of the lip. Then, as suddenly, her features relaxed into a smile as 


BOWDLER’S MISSION 


225 


the voice of Marmaduke Bray resounded through the room, on the sub- 
ject of “ genius in relation to domestic felicity,” a glorious example of 
which, he was explaining in a loud voice to Mrs. Chippering, they had 
been favored with that evening. 

The example himself appeared immediately afterwards, followed by 
his friends from the dining-room, arid taking his stand upon the hearth- 
rug, announced that his dear father was sleeping peacefully. 

“ Delfoy, I envy you,” cried Bray, bursting upon the calm of the draw- 
ing-room with what appeared to be a tremendous shout. “ Yes, I envy 
you. I thought I envied no man, but this night I envy you. I do 
not envy you your wealth ; that you enjoy in common with many others. 
Wealth can be acquired. The brutish person can acquire riches, but 
only the wise know how to dispense them. I envy you, Delfoy, to- 
night in the exercise of your filial instincts. You have reaped a harvest 
of gratitude, of devotion, of ennobling sentiments, and we feel proud 
that we can name you as our friend. Delfoy, we honor you. Give me 
your hand !” 

Bray strode up to the hearth-rug, and grasping the hand of the model 
son, announced to the admiring company that he could hear the wings 
of the angels and the archangels, the seraphim and the cherubim, engag- 
ing in concerted music in honor of his friend’s filial devotion. Mr. Vick- 
ers, not to be outdone, declared he also could . hear them “ twanging 
■ their harps and Mrs. Delfoy wept tears of gratitude, and would have 
kissed her husband before the company if she had dared. Her mother, 
however, remarked to Chippering that “ she didn’t see what there was 
to make so much fuss about,” a commonplace observation arising out 
of her conclusion that her eccentric son - in - law had done “ no more 
than he ought to have done.” She might have added, without any de- 
viation from the truth, that in going through the melodramatic action of 
exhibiting a brown paper parcel of deeds transferring the Luckross es- 
tates to himself, and inviting his father to live in Luckross Castle, he 
1 had done no more than save himself the cost of a chief steward. 

The majority of the company, however, deemed the action to be one 
I of unusual generosity and filial devotion, and spent the rest of the even- 
ing in producing all the adulatory adjectives in their vocabulary in hon- 
or of the incident. They then gradually dispersed, with the exception 
of Bowdler, who had some time earlier made a pretext of going home, 
j but had mysteriously retired into the library, where Delfoy found him 
smoking a short pipe. 

“ Excuse me, Delfoy,” said the rough-and-ready Bowdler, but Bray’s 
I a humbug. How is it you put up with him ?” 

“ Humbugs are useful, Bowdler. My wife adores him. She has just 
told me so. Take a glass of whiskey-and-soda, and let’s talk. I’ve some- 
[ thing to say.” 

I 

! 


226 


THE VEILED HAND 


Bowdler refilled his pipe, took three fingers of whiskey and as much 
plain water, expatiated upon the character of the spirit, detected the 
production of three separate distilleries in it, and wound up his discourse 
by again declaring Bray to be a humbug. 

“Yes, yes,” said Delfoy, settling in his chair with a cigarette. “We’ll 
leave Bray alone for the present. I want to talk to you about your 
people, Bowdler.” 

Bowdler knit his shaggy brow, compressed his thick coarse lips, and 
echoed, 

“ My people ?” 

“ Yes, your work-people. The people you are always talking about, 
who labor and suffer and starve that others may grow rich. Your ‘ moil- 
ers and toilers,’ as you call them. They’re very ill -off, I suppose,” 
mused Delfoy, as if to himself rather than addressing his companion, 
“ very ill - off, struggling for bare subsistence on meagre wages, while 
their employers batten on their wasted sinews and decaying frames. 
Isn’t that the jargon, Bowdler ?” 

“ It’s the truth,” exclaimed Bowdler, bounding from his chair, “ the 
God’s truth of the whole history of this seething mass of tortured mill- 
ions, condemned to everlasting toil by the accursed laws of this country. 
And look here, Delfoy,” he continued, raising his pipe in the air and low- 
ering at his friend as if he would strike him, “ I didn’t stop behind here 
to be insulted ; and if you talk of ‘ jargon,’ what of the pestiferous rant 
of your own tyrannical herd ?” 

“ Sit down, Bowdler. ‘ Tyrannical herd ’ is good, excessively good ; 
and, as you say, ‘ God’s truth.’ ” 

Finding Bowdler slow to be appeased, he added : 

“ Come, Bowdler, don’t be alarmed. I’m with you in spirit, and I 
want to be more so. I want to help you. I want to give you exactly 
what you can’t get from your own professed backers, and certainly not 
from my set. I’m talking of cash, Bowdler — hard cash. You can do 
nothing in politics without hard cash, and that’s what I’m talking about 
now in relation to your toilers and moilers.” 

Bowdler went back to his seat, and pulled at his pipe violently, des- 
perately ; and then, with an oath brutally significant of the familiarity of 
the pair, invited Delfoy to continue. 

“ You were talking to me the other day, Bowdler, of the failure of 
the last strike you projected, and what it cost your men and your socie- 
ties, and how little you gained, and how long you would be before that 
gain recouped your people, and how it was pretty certain that the course 
of trade would compel the giving up of the little gain you then made 
before the recouping of the loss was complete. Now that is so — eh, 
Bowdler?” 

Bowdler nodded assent through the smoke, as he lay curled up in his 


BOWDLER’S MISSION 


227 


chair, and concentrating all his powers on the line now being unwound 
for him, but distrusting every word that was uttered until he had weighed 
it and passed it on as good. 

“ Now, Bowdler,” continued Delfoy, rising and throwing away his 
cigarette, “the reason you failed was because your resources failed you. 
You had not laid out your plans on broad enough lines. A strike is an 
engine you must never have recourse to in a niggardly way. A frag- 
mentary strike is doomed to failure — nobody feels it but those who 
strike, and they starve. They get tired of starving, and the strike fails. 
Do you know why bakers never succeed with a strike ? They fail be- 
cause they cannot stop the domestic oven and the biscuit manufacturers 
and the potato market. Your colliers fail because they strike on the 
Tyne and leave the Scotch fields and the Welsh fields untouched. Your 
iron founders fail because they strike in Lanarkshire and let Cleveland 
supply the market at higher rates. They strike against one set of mas- 
ters to give bigger profits to the masters they leave alone. That’s where 
you are wrong.” 

“ We know that,” moaned Bowdler, “ but we cannot help it.” 

“ Exactly,” responded Delfoy, and he lit another cigarette, “ but it can 
be helped. Now answer me this; would your toilers and moilers like 
another penny an hour all round ?” 

Bowdler languidly responded in the affirmative. He attached no real 
importance to the inquiry, and helped himself to whiskey. 

“ Now, Bowdler, another question. How long would it take you to 
get to London a responsible and trusted delegate from all the great cen- 
tres of the coal and iron-founding industry, provided you paid their rail- 
way fare and gave them a pound apiece for their expenses ?” 

“ A week,” said Bowdler, filling his pipe. 

“ Very well,” said Delfoy. “ Now we’ll suppose we’ve got them up 
here — all good, strong, commanding men, who when they lift their little 
finger and beckon to your hordes, Bowdler, your hordes give them obe- 
dience to the last fragment of their will. Now, when you have got them 
within the sound of your voice, you’ll tell them what they have to do, 
and I think you’ll say when you have heard me out, they will do it to a 
man.” 

Bowdler nodded, and Delfoy raised his hand to assume his most im- 
pressive manner, when Dubley appeared in haste, and with the deepest 
concern on his face. 

“ If you please, sir,” he said, “ Mr. Delfoy has been awake half an hour 
moaning and calling for Mr. George, and saying he is very ill.” 

. “And how can I help that?” exclaimed the economic theorist, instant- 
ly in a rage. “ Why do you interrupt me when you see I am engaged 1” 

“ If you please, sir, sb^ll I fetch the doctor ?” asked the indomitable 
Dubley, 


228 


THE VEILED HAND 


“Fetch anybody you like — do anything.” 

Dubley disappeared. Bowdler smoked, and Delfoy stamped and 
snorted and uttered expletives, intermixed in a curious jumble with the 
words “ trifles ” and “ worries,” and “ irritations,” and generally disport- 
ed himself as the most ill-fated and injured man in creation. Kecover- 
ing, he exclaimed, 

“Well, Bowdler, we were supposing we had our men on the spot, and 
you are going to tell them what they have to do if they are to expect 
your help.” 

Bowdler nodded in expectation. 

“You are to tell them,” continued Delfoy, with his didactic finger 
striking the air with all his old vigor, “ that you have a friend whose 
heart bleeds for their sufferings and their oppression, and who has come 
to the conclusion that it is his duty to society to set apart some of his 
wealth to assist them in a great battle with the grinding capitalists who 
oppress them.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Bowdler, with- awakening zeal — “ah! that I can 
understand.” And Bowdler’s eyes glistened, and his large mouth revolved 
round the stem of his pipe in throes of anticipation. 

“ And then, Bowdler, you must ascertain,” said Delfoy, smiling with 
self-satisfaction, “ two things — the amount of money they have, and the 
amount they will want to do the thing effectually. Get them to appoint 
a committee of three or four, call them ‘ The Campaign Committee,’ or 
something of that sort — always have a good-sounding name — who sh^l 
settle how much money would be needed to supplement their trade fund, 
and I will be at hand to give you your answer before they go back to 
their men. Now, Bowdler, what do you think? Can it be done? Mind, 
a great strike from end to end of the country, and to stand out till we 
say ‘ stop.’ ” 

There was a pause, broken at length by a hard, practical question from 
the hard-headed Bowdler, with pipe in hand and the keen eyes on Del- 
foy’s face. 

“ How far can you go, Delfoy ?” 

“I can go,” answered Delfoy, with severe deliberation — “I can go — er 
— I can go £25,000 seven days after the men have come out.” 

“ That won’t go far,” said Bowdler, “ considering the tremendous 
field you think of tackling.” 

“ No,” said Delfoy, solemnly assenting. “ It will not go far. But I 
go further. I’ll go right on, pound for pound with the combined socie- 
ties. I’ll — in fact I’ll double your sum total of funds up to a quarter of 
a million, Bowdler. Will that go far enough ?” 

“ I think it will,” said Bowdler, solemnly, rising and settling his coat 
around his figure. “ I think it will go quite far enough. We haven’t 
got a quarter of a million between us just now, though we ain’t far from 


BOWDLER’S MISSION 


229 


it. My God,” exclaimed Bowdler, with bated breath, “ what a twister 
we’ll give ’em !” 

“But there are conditions, Bowdler,” said Delfoy, putting his hand 
upon Bowdler’s. shoulder and looking him keenly in the face. “I must 
not be know^ in this matter.” • 

“ Not known !” gasped Bowdler. “ Then what are you doing it 
for?” 

Delfoy put his hand on his heart, and looked up with such an air of 
saintly devotion that Bowdler burst into a loud discordant laugh, but 
Delfoy continued, 

“ No, Bowdler, I must not be known in this matter — at least not until 
I see fit to declare myself — and there are other conditions. There must 
be a strike account opened at some private bank, and an established firm 
of auditors must be appointed to audit the whole of the transactions, to 
prevent any peculation.” 

Bowdler looked uncommonly grave as Delfoy continued, 

“ We must see that not a single penny goes anywhere but to the men 
who are on strike.” 

“ It won’t work if there’s nothing going,” said Bowdler, shaking his 
head. “There must be something — not much, but something.” 

“ There shall be something,” said Delfoy. “ There shall be five thou- 
sand from me to you at the end of the business, and 1 per cent, on all 
I don’t advance below the quarter of a million. That is, if you finish 
the business when I have advanced only fifty thousand, you get another 
two thousand. If you break down, you get nothing. These are the 
conditions,” exclaimed Delfoy, thrusting Bowdler away as if to have a 
comprehensive look at him. “ And now what do you think of them ? 
Is it agreed, and is it Su6cess ?” 

Delfoy resumed his seat and his cigar as Bowdler reflected, with his 
brow overcast, and repeated the terms. Then he said he thought it 
would do ; then he said he was certain it would do ; and finally declared 
it was a magnificent prospect, and with his fist in the air, and his brow 
contracted so that the bushy eyebrows came together and made a sort of 
black wedge wherewith to work the hard head of their owner along his 
path, he declared, in the language of his class, and with appropriate im- 
precations concerning coal-owners and iron-masters, that he would have 
the country in flames in a fortnight. 

It was nearly two in the morning when Delfoy saw his friend out of 
the house; and before he closed the door he looked up into the heavens, 
smiled at the stars, thought it a fine night, and seemed perfectly satisfied 
with himself and his doings. 

Then he wondered where Dubley was, as he bolted the front door 
himself, wondered whether Dubley had gone to sleep as usual, supposed 
Dubley had, in Dubley’s customary inconsiderate manner, and returned 


230 


THE VEILED HAND 


to his library for his final brandy -and -soda, when he was met by a 
stranger in the doorway — the doctor. 

The doctor was impressive, solemnly so, and consequently discon- 
certing. Delfoy remembered Dubley’s interruption, and the recollection 
disturbed him. The doctor approached the situation with professional 
caution, but the substance of his communication was that the honorable 
Member’s father would not see the sun rise again. As they were speak- 
ing Dubley hurried into the room and announced that his old master had 
died in his arms calling for his boy. 

The announcement fell upon Delfoy with bewildering effect. It struck 
him, in its contrast with the work of the evening, with that sense of ex- 
treme loneliness and of absolute individuality always associated with the 
passage of the Angel of Death. The hour, the stillness of the night, 
the hushed voices in conversation, and the appalling fact, which tliere 
was no passing by or going behind, all contributed to his unnerving; and 
he would have fallen but for the steadying hand of the doctor and the 
over ready Dubley. 

He pushed them aside after the first shock, pressed his hand across his 
- brow, and slowly felt his way by the chairs and table to his seat. The 
doctor was ready with the brandy, and Delfoy drank deeply and eagerly. 
Then he rested till his strength revived, and the two stood by respectfully 
sympathetic. 

The shock was the shock of an awakened dread, of a dire superstition, 
wholly undefined but powerful beyond description ; and the two who 
stood by eagerly anticipating a revival of power were reverent of this 
incident of filial suffering. 

When he had thoroughly revived he thanked the doctor for his atten- 
tion with extreme courtesy and every sign of gratitude, instructed Dubley 
to do everything necessary, and added, 

“ I must write a letter before I retire for the night.” 

“ No doubt,” said the doctor. “ Painful, but necessary. May Passure 
you of my most profound sympathy ?” 

Delfoy bowed and grasped his hand in silence, and showed him to the 
door, with expressions of regret that his rest should have been encroached 
upon. He then returned to his library and wrote the letter. It was to 
Huckle, and said : 

“Instruct brokers to buy pig-iron warrants to 100,000 tons, without 
disclosing your client, and send word to the Albany how much you have 
secured by 5 p.m.” 


Chapter XXXVI 
M. BLANCHE 

Two things bad struck Mr. Marmaduke Bray as odd in connection with 
Delfoy’s dinner-party — the presence of Bowdler and the absence of Alister. 
It was essentially a company among whom Alister would, in the or- 
dinary course of things, have been found, and it was also a gathering in 
which Bowdler, in Bray’s estimation, had no concern. But the fact that 
the one was there and the other was not indicated to the reflective editor 
that something was afoot concerning which he was at present in igno- 
rance. It was only natural in these circumstances that Bray should, in 
the pursuit of knowledge, call on Alister in the afternoon of the next day 
on the pretence of ascertaining how things were going on in the com- 
mercial world, so far as the perception of the eminent firm of Bamberger 
& Alister were capable of diagnosing, but really of discovering why 
Alister was not of the party, and why Bowdler was. 

The always accessible Alister received him in his private room, with 
the white waistcoat and the shining hat, and the supreme confidence in 
his own importance that usually characterized him. But if the living 
and abiding respresentative of the great firm of Bamberger & Alister 
was full of self-confidence in point of commercial standing, he was no 
match in point of assurance for the editor of The City Tripod when it 
came to oracular opinion or prophetic deliverance. 

“Alister, my dear fellow, there’s something in the air,” said Bray, walk- 
ing the room and flourishing a new malacca cane with a highly orna- 
mental silver top to it. “ Something portentous, my dear Alister, is in 
the air, and I cannot define the cause or the probable consequences. The 
consequences, my dear Alister, are the essentials — the consequences, and 
I know of no one who can better assist me than yourself. You, my dear 
Alister, are always sound — alwaysT 

Alister bowed and swelled out his chest. He had risen as if to assert 
himself as soon as Bray began his march and his declamation, and he 
took his place at the mantel-piece and struck an attitude as indicating 
proprietorship, and as a protest against the obtrusive manner of his guest. 
He said nothing, however ; he only bowed and looked vastly important. 

“Now, Alister, there’s an uneasy feeling abroad, we know. There 
always is. There is always a watchful disposition in the money market. 
It arises from the common desire on the part of City men to trip other 


232 


THE VEILED HAND 


people up and not to get tripped up themselves. Is it not so,.AlistOr? 
Now tell me, is there anybody in your circle or out of your circle that 
you think likely to get in a tangle — somebody big, Alister ? It must be 
somebody hig — some great banker or financial house. It’s in the air, 
Alister; I know it is; I feel it; I find it in ray letter-bag, and in the 
countenances I see in the street. Now what do you say, Alister?” 

Alister’s importance increased in proportion as he became convinced 
of his ignorance, but he was resolved not to admit himself in any way 
less well-informed than the presumptuous Bray, and said he regretted he 
could not divulge facts that had come to his knowledge in confidence. 

“ Ah yes, no doubt, of course,” said Bray, “ yes, naturally ;” and then, 
suddenly changing front, he said, “By-the-way, Alister, I was dining 
with Delfoy last evening. I expected to see you there. I was dis- 
appointed at not seeing you there.” 

Alister winced. He could not help it. His vanity was wounded. 
He felt he ought to have been at Delfoy’s table, as Bray had been there. 
He was decidedly hit; and Bray, remarking it, continued : 

“Now, Alister, my friend, can you tell me why Delfoy encourages 
that fellow Bowdler? He’s a fellow. He’s a Member of Parliament 
on sufferance, sent up and paid to do the bidding of a lot of mechanics 
and day laborers, and there he was at Delfoy’s c?^?^wer-table, and made 
much of, Alister — made a very great deal of. Now why is that, Alister?” 

Bray’s notion of the oratorical was comprised in exaggerated emphasis. 
He fixed on what he conceived to be the telling word in his sentences, 
and brought himself down upon it with all his might, and with all the 
power of his large obtrusive voice, and an appropriate wave of the 
malacca cane. •Alister, however, shrugged his shoulders, expressing his 
ignorance, and said, with apparent indifference, 

“ I don’t choose Delfoy’s friends. I suppose he has an object in cul- 
tivating Bowdler,” and Alister being a short man, and a pompous man, 
and a nervous man in the presence of Bray, tilted himself forward on 
his toes and backward on his heels as he thus delivered himself. 

“ Still, Alister, you must admit that Bowdler is a vulgar fellow, and 
not the sort of person Delfoy should encourage. I confess,” continued 
Bray, with uplifted eyebrows, “ to a most profound repugnance to the 
fellow — repugnance, ray dear Alister, is the only word. Now, Delfoy’s 
is a grand nature. He announced last night the purchase of the family 
estates, and presented the deeds to his father — most affecting scene. I 
wish you had been there, Alister.” 

Alister winced again. The blow had struck home, and the little black 
beads of eyes were unable to keep themselves sedately indifferent to 
these magniloquent onslaughts. He began to suspect that Bray had re- 
ceived some hint from Delfoy of the actual position of Bamberger & 
Alister. It was just as this idea had entered his head that a clerk brought 


M. BLANCHE 


233 


him a telegram which nobody in the office could understand. It merely 
said) 

“Julius Bamberger. Care of Bell & Co. Calle de la Reina, Madrid.” 

Alister turned white as he glanced at it, and then red, recovered him- 
self, told the clerk he would keep it, and looked at his watch. 

Every motion was remarked by Bray, but his observations were fruit- 
ful only in exciting an intense desire to ascertain the contents of the tel- 
egram. He began : 

“You see, Alister, the situation was unusually affecting. The old man 
had been deprived of his patrimony for nearly twenty years. I’m told. 
He wept, positively wept, at the sight of the title deeds. Squarely was 
there. He’s going to write about it in The Frivol,' I’m told it cost 
two hundred thousand to get the estates back ; and the old man is to go 
down there at once, and spend the rest of his days in peace and plenty.” 

“ Eh ?” said Alister, looking up. He had been thinking of other things, 
and the sonorous chatter of Mr. Marmaduke Bray had been lost to him. 
The talented editor was about to start another train of thought when Mr. 
John Huckle was announced, and his appearance awakened unusual ex- 
citement on the part of Alister, who bowed stiffly, as if he had been a 
fallen favorite and Huckle the public executioner about to conduct him 
to the block. Huckle, however, merely grinned his broadest grin, shook 
hands with both of them at once, giving Bray his left hand, and said, 
without further preliminaries, 

“A word with you, Alister — only half a minute; there’s a good chap.” 
He carried him off by the arm as policemen do criminals — away into the 
corner of the room where Bray could not hear. 

“You know about pig-iron?” said Huckle, sternly examining his 
friend. 

Alister nodded. 

“ Then give me the names of as many brokers of standing that you 
know of— here and in the provinces.” 

“ Yes, to be sure,” whispered Alister, greatly relieved ; and then, with 
a nod over the shoulder, added, “ I’ll come out with you and introduce 
you. I want to get away from — ” Another nod over the shoulder ; and 
then, as they moved towards the office, he said aloud, 

“ Very sorry, Bray, but Huckle wants me to go round the corner. I 
shall be back soon if you can wait.” 

Bray said he could not wait, and went with Huckle to the door, while 
Alister made some communication to his managing clerk, and added ten 
sovereigns to his available funds before he joined the lawyer. 

“ Come along,” said Alister, as he reached Huckle, patiently awaiting 
him. Then, thinking his manner rather hasty, he added, “ That fellow 


234 


THE VEILED HAND 


Bray is a perfect nuisance. He annoys me by bis preaching and his 
questioning.” 

“ It’s his trade,” said Huckle, “ and I never complain of a man for 
working at his own anvil. We’re all, more or less, bores to everybody 
else, my boy.” 

Huckle looked at Alister curiously, and the little black eyes, more 
than ever on the watch now, wondered what Bray had been saying to 
Huckle about him. 

There was not much time for reflection, however. They dived up a 
court, and up a much-worn staircase and into a small ofiice, and thence 
into a comparatively large room, where Messrs. Lohman & Last conduct- 
ed themselves as iron brokers. Mr. Lohman, who was a young and very 
large German, was reading The Tripod at a writing-table, with nothing 
on it otherwise but an inkstand, a quill pen, and a piece of blotting-pa- 
per; and Mr. Last, who was an unusually thin Englishman, was sitting 
on the edge of an adjoining table, chewing a toothpick and rattling 
something metallic in his trousers-pocket. Neither of them seemed very 
busy, but they were consulting what course they should adopt when the 
afternoon market opened — whether they should go with the bulls or the 
bears, or stand by and watch events. 

The Arm of Lohman & Last was one of those international combina- 
tions which insured a patriotic appearance for each in his competition, 
combined with an equal share of profit whether the transaction was con- 
sistent with a patriotic sentiment or not. If it were a case of English 
rails sent to Germany, then it was Last’s doings ; and if it were German 
girders put up in Great Britain, while destitute English furnace-men were 
being subscribed for by a benevolent public because they chose to strike, 
then it was Lohman’s doing ; but the balance sheet made no distinction, 
and they divided the proceeds of each transaction with an eminently in- 
ternational conscience. 

“ Now,” said Alister, “ I’ve a line for you. My friend Mr. Huckle has 
a client who wants to buy pig. How’s the warrant market?” 

“Very dull — very stupid,” said the German. 

“ Flat,” said the Englishman. 

“ Should he buy ?” asked Alister. 

“ That’s exactly what we don’t know,” said Last, with his hat on the 
back of his head, as if it had been thrown there by the creases in his 
forehead, the work of doubt and perplexity. 

“ But you can buy ?” asked Huckle. 

“ Buy !” shouted Last, “ of course we can buy. Thousands !” 

“ Then listen to me,” said Huckle. “ I’m a lawyer, and know nothing 
of this business; but I’ve a client who has instructed me to buy, and I 
come to you, on the introduction of my friend Alister, and request you 
to buy. Now, what I want to know is, will you buy ?” 


M. BLANCH]^ 


235 


“ Unquestionably,” said Last, who immediately ceased chewing his 
toothpick and became exceedingly business-like. “ How much ?” 

“Well, it seems to me,” said Huckle, “that the question now is, how 
far can you go in the direction of 100,000 tons without exciting the 
market?” 

Lohman & Last concealed their emotion at the prospect, and said it 
was a question that could be determined only by trying the market, but 
that if orders were telegraphed to their provincial correspondents in small 
lots perhaps the whole could be secured by four o’clock. 

“ At what price ?” 

The price at that particular moment was thirty-seven. They thought 
the buying could be done under thirty-eight. 

“ Then do it,” said Huckle. “ There’s my address, and let me know 
by 4.15 how much you have got, and the price. Mind, not a minute later 
than 4.15.” 

This piece of business transacted, it only remained for Huckle to thank 
his friend and leave him. Alister then hailed a hansom cab, and next 
morning by ten o’clock he was seated in a barber’s-shop in a Parisian 
suburb, having his hair cut as short as a Parisian barber could cut it. He 
was dressed in bright blue check trousers, an open waistcoat, and a jacket 
to match, a rigid shirt collar, and an immense blue and white tie. His 
liat was the tallest and flattest - brimmed hat he could find, and he had 
become M. Blanche. 


Chapter XXXVII 


M. BLANCHE TAKES A BIRD’S-EYE VIEW 

Alister had improved on Delfoy’s suggestion. He did not pack a 
bag with forty sovereigns in it. He kept ten five-pound notes in his 
pocket, and these, with the ten sovereigns he had procured from his 
managing clerk, together wdth the loose cash he happened to have about 
him, were sufficient for his purpose. Compromising papers had been 
long since destroyed, and when he hailed the hansom cab he made straight 
for the tidal train, and next morning he walked out of the Paris railway 
station without a particle of luggage. He breakfasted and went to an 
outfitter’s, bought a suit of clothes of pronounced local color and put 
them on, packed his old clothes in brown paper, and left them “ to be 
called for,” without the slightest intention of claiming them, and then he 
had his head shaved. Next morning he was on the other side of the 
Pyrenees. 

The journey had been a season of reflection to M. Blanche. Drawn 
with irresistible force by the golden loadstone in the bank at Madrid, he 
had not delayed a moment on the road. The stout little M. Blanche, 
with shaven head and the two days’ beard, ate and drank at the bouffe, 
smoked cigarettes, riveted his eyes on the French newspapers as if he 
could read them, and never spoke but to say “jsarcfow” and “mem” all 
the way through France. He became braver and oilier and more like the 
people he travelled with every hour of the day, but was ^eaf as a post 
when they spoke to him. 

He had become an absconding bankrupt before his time. He looked 
fiercely at madarae opposite to him as he thought of it, and madame 
imagined his scowl was directed at the pet rabbit she had developed from 
an unusually large pocket, where the rabbit burrowed when the train 
pulled up. Madame was indignant with monsieur, and monsieur, think- 
ing of Delfoy, scowled the more. 

It had become clear to Alister that, in representing himself to be Ju- 
lius Bamberger among the bankers of Spain, he would absorb in his own 
person the entire firm of Bamberger & Alister. If he did not represent 
himself to be Julius Bamberger he could not possess himself of the com- 
petency provided for him by the foresight of Delfoy. Then the possi- 
bility forced itself upon him that perhaps the money had not been lodged, 
or had been withdrawn, or would, by some new device of Delfoy’s, be 


M. BLANCHE TAKES A BIRD’S-EYE VIEW 


237 


withheld from him. His imagination created innumerable pitfalls for 
himself, all testifying by their wildness and ingenuity to the overpower- 
ing influence Delfoy exerted upon his actions and upon his very life. 
He had been attracted to him for years, doing his bidding with the sub- 
mission of a mesmerized subject, and now he was being projected a dis- 
tance of a thousand miles by the same incomprehensible force. He felt 
that during these past years he had been treated by Delfoy as madame 
treated the rabbit. He had been let out to nibble a piece of lettuce for 
a moment or two, and now he was being thrust into the big pocket called 
Spain, out of the way of the police. 

“ And the twenty-flve thousand ?” 

That dreadfully urgent 'and constantly recurring question was again 
upon him ; and he grinned a sardonic grin as he reflected that if he found 
Delfoy had played him false he would return and denounce him, take the 
punishment his repentance or revenge would lead him to, and live honor- 
ably ever after. 

The reflection that he would repent and face justice if the £25,000 
were not at his command afforded him so much moral comfort that he 
smiled at the rabbit on madame’s lap, and again became the vain, confi- 
dent, reckless Alister who .strutted the floor of the Baltic coffee-house, 
and drew bills for thousands without a thought of the morrow. 

But Delfoy had not played him false. He knew better than to do 
that. Delfoy was an unconscionable rascal, but he was also a model of 
prudence ; and prudence required that Alister should, announce to the 
merchants and bankers of the City of London that he was a scoundrel. 
The business was done so effectually that M. Blanche was actually dining 
in the finest hotel in Madrid, with the money all placed in safety, before 
London had awakened to the fact that Bamberger & Alister was no 
more. All that had happened within the precincts of the City at five 
o’clock on that day when he cashed the bill of exchange in Madrid was 
an uneasy feeling on the part of Mr. Alister’s managing clerk, arising^ 
from the continued absence of his chief, and his want of instructions as 
to the precise form of excuse or apology he had to make for the unusual 
occurrence. The fatal fourth of the month, however, came, and Bam- 
berger <fe Alister was announced to have failed for two millions. 

M. Blanche read the impressive fact in the Times as he sipped his 
after-dinner coffee, and was much elated by the reflection that his pro- 
ceedings had provoked a panic. Complacently regarding the outburst 
of commercial indignation at a safe distance, he experienced quite a 
glow of satisfaction at the magnitude of his defalcation, and the extent 
and variety of its consequences. He could hardly have felt more vain 
if he had made a couple of millions instead of losing them, or, to be 
more particular, in causing other people to lose the imposing sum. 

His complacency, however, was to some extent disturbed by reference 


238 


THE VEILED HAND 


in a leading article on his flight to the action of Mr. Delfoy, M. P.,.in 
the House of Commons, who, it appeared, had animadverted upon the 
enormity of a civilized country giving refuge to criminal defaulters. 
The writer of the article incidentally referred to the fact that the honor- 
able Member was himself a loser by the bankrupt firm, and might be 
regarded as representative of the whole body of creditors. 

M. Blanche boiled with indignation at this “ perfidy,” as he called it ; 
but thought of the twenty-five thousand, and cooled down. 

Calmer reflection led him to the pig-iron market, where he found it 
slightly disturbed by rumors of dissatisfaction among the men, and fol- 
lowing the ideas that his conversation with Bray had awakened, he 
sought for mention of Bowdler, and found he had been haranguing a 
miner’s meeting on over-production. All this was sweet distraction to 
M. Blanche, whose thoughts again reverted to the twenty-five thousand, 
and he was almost content. 

A millionaire in the sense of catastrophe, and a subject for parlia- 
mentary animadversion by his fellow- conspirator, M. Blanche settled 
down to sober reflection on the situation. He observed that several 
other failures of some magnitude were expected, and one or two small 
incidents had already been chronicled, but these had occurred on the 
Stock Exchange over the Great Coradell “ boom/’ The subject was 
interesting to M. Blanchb on personal grounds, for he was not only a 
Great Coradell director, but had dealt with the firm of brokers that had 
gone by the board, and he chuckled as he reflected that his creditors and 
not he would be the losers by the failure. 

The Great Coradell seemed to be attracting considerable attention. 
The bears had been caught, and everybody was very much surprised to 
discover that the house of Heritage had put all its strength into the 
matter and intended to hold. Great Coradell was to be wiped out of 
the speculative market, and every one of the directors except Philip dis- 
covered that he was no longer a share-holder because he had oversold. 
They could not deliver anything like the number of shares they had 
disposed of, nor could they procure them for delivery at any price. 
The register was accordingly denuded of all but the house of Heritage, 
and the fortune made on the rising market had reduced the cost of Great 
Coradell to them to less than nothing. The consternation of the Right 
Honorable Peter was beyond description. He was saved from bank- 
ruptcy by his sister, but he had to leave the Government from “ con- 
tinued indisposition,” so the newspapers said. 

The newspaper euphemisms will be a delightful study to the archaeo- 
logical pedant of the future. Could anything be more odd than the 
way harsh truth is wrapped up in these days of whitewashed sepulchres 
and social blindness? How desperately anxious we all are not to see 
the seamy side of things j how we turn our noddipg heads upti| every-* 


M. BLANCHE TAKES A BIRD’S-EYE VIEW 


239 


thing we see is glorious, and strive our hardest to believe that the thing 
we hope for is the thing that is. Of course flowers are more pleasant 
to contemplate than offal ; but, for all that, society should remember that 
the Right Honorable Peter was a scoundrel. 

All these incidents were exceedingly interesting to M. Blanche, sip- 
ping coffee at a safe distance from the bewildering scene, and in the 
calm assurance that his future was one of peace and comparative plenty. 
He resolved to keep his eye on the pig-iron market, and as he made the 
resolution the little beady black eyes twinkled maliciously. 

In the mean time he took a walk in the Prado, and being mindful of 
the instructions of the guide-book, that he had studied with much 
earnestness during the period anterior to his flight, he was gracious to 
a lantern-jawed stranger of mature years, sallow complexion, and heavy 
black eyebrows, who bowed to him effusively and offered him a cigar. 
The stranger spoke English, and perhaps this had something to do with 
the graciousness of the not unsuspicious M. Blanchb. 

“ Excuse the liberty,” said the stranger, “ but I saw you in the bank 
to-day. Just arrived, I presume?” 

“ Yes,” said M. Blanche, settling himself in an attitude of importance, 
in which the walking-stick played a distinguished part. It seemed as if 
M. Blanchb was always to be under the necessity of asserting himself by 
an imposing attitude, and having struck the stick on the ground twice 
and settled his arms akimbo, he inquired, “ And you, sir, have you been 
here long?” 

“ I’ve been here five years, and I find it a most agreeable place. It 
wants the bustle of Threadneedle Street of course, but you can’t have 
everything in this world.” 

They smoked awhile in contemplation of this profound reflection, but 
after a few pulls the stranger advanced a step in the direction of ac- 
quaintanceship. He remarked upon the novelty of Spanish manners, the 
rigor of their prejudices, the ease with which they could be overcome 
with knowledge, and offered to place his experience at the new-comer’s 
disposal. 

“ Do you propose to stay long here ?” he asked, in conclusion. 

“ I hope not.” 

“ Naturally,” said the stranger, “ we all feel that way, but we stay 
nevertheless.” Then, turning upon his new friend, he said, with a whim- 
sical air, “ / can leave ; I’ve managed matters. I prefer to stay. You 
see. I’ve made a little arrangement, and I now act as an intermediary.” 

“ Indeed ?” said M. Blanche. 

“ Yes,” said the stranger, with a mechanical smile that seemed rather 
hard to work, “an intermediary. You see, a man comes here suddenly. 
He doesn’t leave the necessary messages for his friends and relatives, 
and he doesn’t care to write. He has his reasons, no doubt, for this ap- 


240 


THE VEILED HAND 


parent neglect or want of courtesy, and yet he desires to communicate, 
and he may need some little business transacted in which the hankers 
may play a part.” 

The stranger smiled the mechanical smile as he uttered the word 
“bankers” — an insinuating, confidence - working smile, as referring to 
something strong and solid as apart from his lean and not too well- 
dressed self. 

“ The banker,” he said, “ can transfer^ if necessary.” 

The stranger drew himself up and repeated the smile and waited. 
There was no response, and he continued : 

“ I have not introduced myself,” he said. “ Let me give you my card. 
My name is Newmans, formerly of the firm of Barcham, Newmans <fe 
Thirl, solicitors, and I am recommended by your bankers. I refer you 
to your bankers.” ^ 

Again the smile meandered over the man’s countenance and worked 
itself off. 

There was another pause, broken again by Mr. Newmans, who pro- 
tested he was anxious to assist a new-comer; and remarking that M. 
Blanche’s circumstances were well known, advised him to assume his own 
name, and put himself under the protection of the authorities. 

“ Consult your banker,” said the stranger. “ He’ll put you right.” 

This advice was accompanied by many nods and winks, the purport of 
which could in nowise be mistaken, and M. Blanche, who at the first 
blush was inclined to be indignant, became quite mollified when his new 
acquaintance said, with a reassuring bow, 

“You should understand, sir, that with resources such as I presume 
are at your disposal you will be quite a person of consideration here.” 

This was gratifying. But how did Mr. Newmans know of his re- 
sources. Alister asked him. 

“ I have no positive knowledge,” said Newmans, “ but I was in the 
bank when you called, and I remarked the deference with which you 
were received. It is not the practice of bankers to treat the needy 
with deference, sir,” he added, with an accent on the “ sir ” that thrilled 
the nerves of the delighted Alister. “ I observed the smile of Mr. Frew, 
the chief cashier, on bowing you out,” continued Newmans, “and adjudge 
from that that your balance is not inconsiderable. It’s a sure token,” 
he said, with a bow and a shrewd look,, as if he would indicate a desire 
to worship the possessor of so much wealth as he presumed Alister to 
have at his command. 

Such is the effect of judicious flattery that the old Alister reasserted 
himself, repudiated the new M. Blanche, took Mr. Newmans home to his 
hotel, and discussed men and things in a spirit of hope and confidence. 
In the course of the conversation they discovered they had some am- 
bitions in common, and that their experiences curiously intertwined. 


M. BLANCHE TAKES A BIRD’S-EYE VIEW 


241 


Mr. Newmans saw business looming in the future, and his visits were 
from time to time renewed, until all suspicion was dissipated and a per- 
fect understanding was established. 

Alister continued his review of home affairs during the next few days 
by the aid of the newspapers, and discovered fresh consolation day by 
day. Bowdler, he found, was hard at work preaching the power of the 
strike 3s a means of procuring what he called “ a just wage,” and zest 
was given to Alister’s appetite for news on discovering that Philip Heri- 
tage had begun a campaign against Bowdler among the member’s constit- 
uents. The City crisis was increasing in intensity, and the threatened 
labor trouble appeared to add to the commercial depression. References 
appeared in the journals commending the young orator for his vigor 
and courage, but these were the compliments of sympathy rather than 
the expression of hope. Close reasoning and sound economics are, we 
all know, useless for dissipating aspirations founded in the belief that 
the time is at hand when there shall be no small beer. 

But Alister did not reason; he merely remarked that a strike was 
threatened, and that Bowdler was at work. He was convinced that Del- 
foy was at the bottom of it ; and, in default of participating in the profits, 
he thirsted for revenge. 

Among other items of news that attracted his attention was a small 
paragraph in the fashionable intelligence to the effect that Mrs. Heritage 
had had a relapse at her house in Cavendish Square. 

16 


Chapter XXXVIII 


THE RELAPSE 

It all happened in an hour, and in the middle of the night. 

The convalescent had been out driving when a letter was put into her 
hand by a strange man as she passed from her carriage to her doorway. 
There was no commotion, no apparent intrusion, everything was com- 
monplace and ordinary, except that this manner of delivering a letter 
was unusual. The blood surged back to her heart as she took the letter, 
and the two girls who observed the incident in every particular spoke 
only to each other about it, and were concerned each in her own way. 

They were alone during the evening. Heritage dined out, and Philip 
was still pursuing Bowdler. A painful restraint was upon the mother 
and her girls. There was an unusual brightness about Muriel’s eyes and 
a nervous watchfulness in her manner, a sudden starting at the least noise, 
and then a laugh and a fearful glance, as if suspicious of observation. 

• But nothing was said save the trivial and commonplace, and while the 
girls wondered (in the midst of reflections on the fashions and of com- 
ments on the eccentricities of the day) what terrible cause had brought 
about this strange manner in their mother, the poor wretch of anxious 
nights and suffering days, of fearful penitence, groaned as she laughed, 
and prayed for death and oblivion as she discussed a flower in a bonnet 
or criticised a neighbor’s robe. 

The night came, but no rest — only solitude, and the furnace of her 
thoughts still growing in intensity racked her hour by hour. 

Heritage would have left her undisturbed, as was his custom when re- 
turning home late or unexpectedly ; but the light came from under her 
door, and, as he listened, doubting whether to enter and see that all was 
safe, he heard the labored scratching of a pen. 

,The unusual in the stillness of the night excites the imagination. The 
creaking of a stair, the flapping of a blind, the moaning of the wind in 
the chimney, or the hurried skirr of a mouse conjures up a myriad fears 
and makes the strongest halt. This busy pen was most unquieting. 
Clearly Muriel was awake, and writing with determination. 

He had come up-stairs in the darkness, and unattended, as was his 
custom ; for his old tendency to cultivate individuality, and resist as 
much as possible the intrusion of domestics upon his movements, had 
grown upon him, and had been developed to the verge of the misan- 


THE RELAPSE 


243 


thropic. His rooms were prepared for him, to be used or not as he 
chose, but he preferred that none should wait for him or upon him, if 
only what he needed was within his command by a little trouble. Thus 
he was alone in the darkness in the hall, with the line* of light under the 
door and the sound of the hurrying pen. Then a pause of silence ensued 
that weighed upon him like a leaden pall. What should he do? He 
could not withdraw with this strange and inexplicable thing continuing ; 
and yet he must not enter suddenly, as if to surprise her. There was a 
sound — a groan — a sob — a stifled cry as if for help, and he no longer 
doubted. 

“ Yes, Muriel ; are you in any trouble ?” he asked, as he stepped quickly 
into the room. 

In an instant she was on her feet, with a scream that rang through the 
house and seemed to cut the heart in two as with hot steel, so terrible 
was her aspect. Then she stood before the table at which she had been 
writing, with her hands behind her, tearing the papers she had written, 
and with her eyes upon her husband menacingly as she labored to destroy. 

As he stood (ready, but determined) he saw her put out her hand 
cunningly and overturn the inkstand upon the wreck of papers on her 
writing-pad, and then when she had smeared the ink with her hands she 
turned and laughed at the wreck, and turned again and laughed at 
Heritage, and smeared her inky hands one upon the other and upon her 
fresh white robe, as if she had been a foolish child. 

“Come, Muriel,” said Heritage, advancing, “you’re not well. Let 
me advise you,” and he took her by the arm, and then by the waist, and 
finally he had her hand in his, as if to fondle her, with his arm about her 
— and she was safe ! 

“Come,” he said, “ you are very cold. You should have been asleep, 
as I have often seen you sleeping, gently and unconscious of my being 
near you, and — ” 

“ No more,” she cried, “ no more,” and then she shook her head and 
wailed again, “ no more.” 

Some of the household were by this time without, whispering doubt- 
fully as to their movements. She made signs to Heritage to send them 
away — mouing at the doorway. When they had been sent to their 
rooms, and the door was closed, she began to search the floor eagerly, and 
clasp her hands and rock herself with painful meanings, sitting on the 
side of her bed. 

The pain that Heritage felt was hidden by his fond solicitude beneath 
a quiet, sympathetic manner, eager to secure her rest. He took a fur- 
lined cloak and wrapped her in it, led her to a chair, and called her 
maid, who washed her hands. She laughed at this, said it was so queer, 
and splashed around the water in her childish mood ; and then in deep 
distress she’d seem to cry, but shed no mending tears. 


244 


THE VEILED HAND 


They were alone again, she lying in her bed, apparently at rest, and he 
sitting by her side, holding her hand and wondering what misfortune had 
befallen her; how this new attack had been caused, and how it could be 
mended. Her eyes were closed, but a strange firm line about her mouth 
showed she was alert. 

Presently she turned aside, and looking on him tenderly, said, “ Oh, 
my good husband,” and shook her head mournfully, as if in such misery 
as hers goodness was of no avail. Then he kissed her, and bade her try 
to sleep. 

She said she would try, and asked for chlorodyne, and taking the 
proper dose, stretched out her hand for the phial, with a strange look in 
her eyes as they rested on his face, and with the hard lines about her 
mouth drawn tightly down. 

She closed her eyes again, and there was silence for a time; but the 
mind was working still, resolving impossible problems and threading in- 
surmountable tangles in the brain backward and forward in madden- 
ing perplexity. Then she suddenly opened her eyes, and pointing to the 
table where all the torn and blotted writing was, she said, in a hoarse 
whisper, 

“ Look, look, my husband, my Morris, who has been so good to me. 
Look, there it is. I see iL Just there ! The ink has run across the page, 
but still no ink could blur the horrid words from out my brain.” 

Heritage looked where she pointed, and there, sure enough, was a 
folded letter lying on the verge of the heap of fragments ; but thinking 
she was merely raving, he’ tried to quiet her, and said the papers could 
wait till the morning, and urged her to sleep. 

“ No !” she said — “ no ; I’ll never sleep again. I never can, not even 
when I’m dead ; and oh, that I could die and leave you free, even if I 
wandered for ever and ever through the earth and through the air. Look 
at it. See ! There’s a devil holding it in his hand and offering it to you. 
See! See!” 

She pushed him towards the table, and nothing that he could do availed 
to pacify her. At length he rose to take the letter from the pile, when, 
quick as thought, she seized the chlorodyne, and had it hidden before his 
face was turned towards her. 

“ Now, Morris, now read it, and say what I must do,” she said, eagerly. 
“ Say I must die, Morris, and then you needn’t tell Philip.” 

He was sorely perplexed ; her mind was so clearly out of balance with 
her strange malady, which only sleep could cure, that he thought to quiet 
her by indifference, and handed her the letter unopened and unread. 

■ “ No,” she cried, spreading it open and returning it. “ Read it.” 

It was not a letter ; merely ten or a dozen lines of hard, matter-of-fact 
words, wholly insufficient, one would think, to have so desperate a result, 
but to her it was the final turn of the rack. 


THE RELAPSE 


245 


“ Your son,” it ran, “ is interfering with my plans. You must tell him 
to discontinue his speeches. I insist upon it. If you do not check him, 
I shall see him myself and make him understand you are on the edge of 
a precipice and that your future requires that he obey me. G. D.” 

She watched him as he read with an eager, unnatural brightness in her 
eyes akin to delight ; she was experiencing the ecstasy of desperation. 
Heritage flushed with anger as he read the dastard threat; but not a word 
or even look escaped him to accelerate the fever of her brain or mar the 
road to sleep, her only medicine. He put the letter down, and sat beside 
the bed again, without a word. He was only a little sterner in the feat- 
ures, somewhat nervous, and for the moment unready for speech. 

She moved her hand from underneath the pillow and withdrew the 
chlorodyne, concealed within her grasp. 

“ Come,” she said, “ you understand.” Then, hoarsely, as she held the 
opiate in her hand away from him, she said, “ Look ! Now I’ll die, and 
Philip will not know. You’ll promise me you will not tell him?”. 

He heaved a sigh and trembled as he turned upon her, still without a 
word, and wrested the poison from her grasp. 

Then, as she struggled to regain possession of her hope, he said, 

“ No, Muriel, no ; that is not the way to mend a wrong. See, I hold 
you by the wrists. You cannot move, and must needs submit.” 

She looked at him defiantly and fearfully. The terror of the hunted 
thing was upon her, and she seemed to regain some fragment of her rea- 
son in fear of chastisement. 

“ Let us be calm, Muriel. Let us reason.” 

“ No, no !” she cried. “ I have done wrong and cannot live. I have done 
wrong, and I must die that you may live, and still be happy once again.” 

“Do you think,” he asked, “that I could buy happiness if it were pur- 
chasable at such a price ? Your misery, distress, and cruel suffering can- 
not ease my pain — my pain for you. We must be merciful, my Muriel, 
to each other and to ourselves.” 

She looked at him with her eyes strained, and with fearful shrinking 
from him, not understanding the quiet temper of his remonstrance. 

“ Your story is not new to me, Muriel,” he continued. “I have known 
it long ago. The name is a revelation to me, and a terrible one. It has 
unnerved me for the moment, but I see clearly now. Your story has been 
a secret in the past, let it be a secret still. Let it be buried in the still 
hours of the night, never to be recalled. There are some things that one 
must bear for the sake of others. It is not for me, who call myself a 
Christian, to flout the Godhead by vaunting the hypocrisy of honor because 
another has deceived a woman of pure heart and infinite devotion. You 
were silent when you should have spoken, and, must I say it? were to 
blame.’^ 


246 


THE VEILED HAND 


He said it firmly, and yet with gentleness, as a thing of truth should 
be always spoken when the dread necessity has arisen, and then he waited 
as the quivering soul shrank and cowered in its agony ; but when the 
woman groaned and hid her face upon the pillow, he went on in tender- 
ness and love, and with his strong right hand upon her bruised shoulder : 

“ But I remember always that your temptation was great. It was 
overwhelming, for the love of your children was supreme. I forgive 
you. I have forgiven you long ago, because your heart is pure, and ever 
has been so, because your life has been a life of devotion and self-denial, 
an embodiment, as far as these days seem able to afford, of all that is 
Christ-like in poor human nature. I say, again, we must be' merciful to 
each other, and we must be merciful to ourselves.” 

Again he paused, and in response there came a sob, but nothing more. 

“ Conventional custom preaches otherwise,” he went on more calmly, 
as if reasoning with himself, “ but we are not to be guided by conven- 
tional laws. In times that are past there would have been two ways of 
ending this matter — suicide and the duel. I confess to having experi- 
enced a momentary impulse to adopt them ; but oceans of blood and 
eternal self-immolation will not destroy a fact, and I cannot think it 
God’s will that anguish of mind should be made perpetual because that 
once upon a time a man played the villain ! We, Muriel, have to do with 
human faith and human hope and human trust, such as we have known 
it — each with the other. Let the thing be dead, and leave the rest 
to me.” 

The grateful tears began to fiow as she hid her face upon the pillow, 
and the sobs came thick and fast, and brought with them healing to the 
harried nerves. 

At last in very deed the thing was dead ; for the phantom that arose 
from the ashes in the little room in Torrington Square was now no more 
forever. 


Chapter XXXIX 


MR. MAWLL OF MADRID 

Morris Heritage was accustomed to wait upon events — not blindly, 
but with discretion. He used to say that “ things happen,” and that the 
wisdom of man was displayed more in appropriating what came towards 
him than in pursuing the distant prize. Action, he knew, would be nec- 
essary in the near future, for he recognized the impossibility of remain- 
ing passive in the face of malignant competition such as the blotted let- 
ter had disclosed. Philip’s activity in the north, he conceived, was un- 
wise, because in the absence of a settled plan a false step might be taken, 
and perhaps it would be better if Delfoy were led to believe he had been 
obeyed. He therefore wrote a brief note to Philip, asking him to make 
no fresh engagements, but that when he had completed those to which he 
was pledged he should return and confer. Then he considered the posi- 
tion, and proceeded to form a programme, which with Morris Heritage 
was a work of time. 

He had come to the conclusion that it would be better in the interest 
of society if Geoffrey. Delfoy were made incapable of doing further harm, 
and he proposed to himself the task of preventing him. Some may con-_ 
demn this resolution as being the product of a revengeful spirit, and as 
a triumph of the baser instincts of Heritage’s nature ; but although it 
would be ridiculous to pretend that his determination was the expression 
I of his love for Delfoy, yet it is absolutely true that he was impelled by 
something more than a personal feeling of detestation, and was persuaded 
I that what he proposed to do should be done because it accorded with the 
I fitness of things. He did not often appropriate to himself the oflSce of 
Justiciar; but when he did, he was firm in his purpose and unceasing in 
' his efforts until his task was accomplished. The personality of his Mu- 
! riel’s evil genius had been unknown to him until he had read the blotted 
! letter ; and now that the man was disclosed, the cowardly threat unrolled 
I itself before his eyes in letters of flame, and shaped themselves into the 
I form of a sword, with the hilt to his hand. 

[ But although the object was clear, the way to achieve it was still in 
I embryo. A week of thought had not discovered to him a single step 
I that he could take with any but ephemeral effect. He experienced all 
I the disappointment of the patriot conspirator enclosed by four stone 
I walls, with the chagrin associated with the knowledge that the walls 
‘ were imaginary and that an open door led nowhere. 


248 


THE VEILED HAND 


He resolved to take a week’s rest from the subject. It had become a 
cause of irritation, and he had not yet talked with Philip. This would be 
a distraction, and Philip was expected home that day. He was conscious 
of the futility of this course, but he had no other; and just as he was en- 
deavoring to find consolation in it, a letter was brought to him that was 
more of an enigma than the problem he had set himself. It ran as fol- 
lows : 

“ Dear Sir, — I have come expressly from the Continent to see you on 
a matter of personal concern to yourself, and of special interest to the en- 
terprise of your son in the north. If you grant me five minutes of your 
time you will be able to determine whether or not I have made a wrong 
estimate of the importance of the communication I desire to make to you. 
I wait without, and am. Your obedient servant, 

“ Silas Mawll.” 

The bearer was described as a thin, white-haired man, with a white 
necktie, and dressed in black. He seemed to be a clergyman, and Mor- 
ris Heritage supposed a collector of subscriptions ; but he said he would 
see him, and anticipated amusement in the way in'which his visitor would 
connect the terms of his letter with the objects of a philanthropic society. 
As Morris Heritage had not seen his visitor talking with the outlawed 
Alister on the Prado he was not struck with the fact that his hair had 
apparently become white, and that his garments and general appearance 
had much changed for the better. Mr. Newmans, however, had assumed 
what he described as his “ missionary ’’appearance and his “missionary” 
name, as, notwithstanding his boast that he was free to return to London, 
there were reasons still extant that made it advisable he should remain 
unknown. So he dressed as a clergyman, and lived in Soho. He did 
not leave Heritage long in doubt either as to his mission or his principal. 
Speaking with studied suavity, he said, 

“The activity of your son in the north has induced me to come along 
distance to make a communication to you.” 

“ Then I do not wish to hear it,” exclaimed Heritage, with a heat that 
was most unusual with him. He was on the instant fired with indigna- 
tion, not at what had been said, but at what he believed was going to be. 
said to him. He connected the calm, judicious, and well-considered state- 
ment of Mr. Newmans, alias Mawll, with the threat of Geoffrey Delfoy, 
and he was afraid that the whole of the ungracious incident that he was 
endeavoring to forget was to be obtruded upon his notice by this obvi- 
ously harsh and certainly unwelcome stranger. Despite the eminently 
respectable garments and the white hair, there was a callous twist about 
the mouth of Mr. Mawll that indicated a sinister intention. His words 
came out hard and precise, as if they were bricks being ejected from a 


MR. MAWLL OF MADRID 


249 


mould. He had a good deal of the manner of his deceased partner Mr. 
Barcham, of Barcham, Newmans & Thirl. 

The retort by Heritage was somewhat disconcerting to Mawll, who 
drew himself together and said, with a keen, impressive look : 

“You surely misunderstand me, sir. If I cannot claim to be a friend 
of yours, I am certainly not an enemy, as you appear to suppose. It 
would be unfortunate if you refused to hear me. Give me leave but for 
five minutes, and then, if you will, show me the door ; but do not, I beg 
of you, for your own sake, do so before you have heard me.” 

This was quite an impassioned appeal for Mr. Mawll, and he stood with 
his left hand held forth, eagerly looking for encouragement. It was slow 
to come, but it came at length. Heritage concluded that it was better 
he should learn the w'orst than remain in ignorance of whatever villany 
might be afoot. So he waved his visitor to a chair, told him to proceed, 
and be brief, and then sat back in his seat and waited, a perfect marvel 
of watchful resistance. Mr. Mawll proceeded with alacrity : 

“ We,” he said — “ that is, my principal and myself — approve of your 
son’s purpose, and wish him success; but feeling that he is not going 
the right way to work, I have come to you to submit my scheme, ask 
for your approval and assistance, and proffer my co-operation in any way 
you may think expedient.” 

Heritage nodded. He did no more. He was still watchful and re- 
ceptive. 

“Your son,” continued Mawll, “is attacking Bowdler. That’s the 
wrong man. He is merely an instrument of a stronger yet more vulner- 
able man.” 

Mr. Mawll paused, and the Newmans of the Prado shone out through 
the rouge and the powder on the sallow skin of his face, and glimmered 
round the false eyebrows and patriarchal wig. 

Mr. Mawll had thrown out his first strong card. 

“ Who is that stronger and more vulnerable man ?” inquired Heritage, 
with an effort. 

The armor of his suspicion had been pierced, and the stranger of the 
Prado continued, 

“A man of great position here, a member of Parliament named 
Delfoy.” 

The second card was down, and the hot blood rushed to the face of 
Heritage. He became eager. 

“How do you know that?” he asked. 

“ I will tell you,” said the visitor, and he coughed behind a baggy 
black kid glove, more at his ease, and prepared to deliver something in 
the shape of dogmatic teaching. 

Heritage, for his part, was confronted by a kaleidoscope of possible 
combinations. Up to this moment he had been troubled with the fear 


250 


THE VEILED HAND 


that the terrible letter of his discomfiture had in some way originated with 
the man before him. Now he conceived it possible that a counterfoil 
had been accidentally put into his hands with which to attack the sender 
of the letter. 

“ My principal,” said Mawll, with another cough — a modest, bashful 
cough, suggestive of humiliation and dejection — “ is in an unfortunate 
position, and he desired me to say that if by any chance you, Mr. Heri- 
tage, happen to have been a loser by his laches, you should be informed 
that this Delfoy is the origin of his ruin, and that in his punishment, 
which your son is now fruitlessly endeavoring to achieve, you will find a 
means of recouping yourself of all that you may have lost as a financial 
house through my principal, if you should have lost anything.” 

This declaration ran in a consistent diminuendo of abject submission, 
and Heritage smiled as he said, 

“ You have not yet told me who is your principal.” 

“ Mr. Alister,” said the visitor, “ of Bamberger & Alister, an absconded 
bankrupt, I regret to say, driven to the ignominious position by this 
same man Delfoy,” exclaimed the visitor, with reviving courage. 

Heritage laughed at this explosion of virtuous indignation, and re- 
verted to a sceptical condition of mind. His serious fears were at an end, 
although he had not yet seen a road for himself in the mazy paths of 
the suggested commercial roguery. 

“ Come, now, let us see where we have got to,” he said. “ My son, 
you say, is fighting a subordinate, and you want me to attack the leader. 
Why ?” 

“ Because you can crush both with scarcely an effort. This great strike 
in the iron industry, about which your son is so eloquent — and allow me 
to say, sir, there are some very fine passages in his speeches — is the crea- 
tion of Delfoy for market speculation ; and Bowdler is his tool, perhaps 
his unconscious tool, but we think not.” 

Heritage was about to interrupt, when the black kid glove was upheld 
and the stranger continued : 

“ We have conferred, sir, long and anxiously on this subject, and we 
know that Delfoy bought heavily — most heavily, sir — more heavily than 
any man would buy in ordinary circumstances, a week before the strike 
was dreamed of. Mr. Alister, my principal, introduced the broker. Fur- 
ther, sir, we know that Bowdler was in intimate conference with Delfoy 
the evening before, and with Mr. Bray the editor of The Tripod. Fur- 
ther, we know that the buying has been going on, and we have reason to 
know that he will not commence selling for several weeks.” 

“ Well ?” said Heritage, tis the vehement declaration stopped. 

“ Well, sir,” said Mawll, in a slightly injured tone, “ it’s very simple, 
sir. Bowdler can stop the strike, and Bowdler can be bought. Bowdler 
has his price, sir.” 


MR. MAWLL OF MADRID 


251 


Mr. Mawll waited with a feeling amounting almost to indignation, as 
he observed no responsive scintillation of delight in Heritage’s face as 
this wonderful scheme was disclosed. It was not within the compass of 
Mr. Mawll’s experience of life that a man should feel repugnance ai the 
bare idea of bribery in any form ; and since he was proposing merely to 
bribe one rogue to betray another, coupled with a distinct and certain 
advantage, he regarded Heritage with amazement. 

Heritage walked the room much more agitated than his visitor imag- 
ined. The temptation was a strong one, and it was not a question with 
Heritage whether he should act upon the information given to him, but 
whether he should use it in the way suggested, or in some manner more 
consonant with his notions of propriety. His chief anxiety, however, 
was to assure himself that the statements made to him were true. The 
manner of turning them to account was a secondary consideration. While 
he was reflecting on , the best answer to give his visitor the arrival of 
Philip was announced ; and this event hastened his decision. Said he, in 
the firm, decisive tones in which he was accustomed to deliver himself on 
matters of commerce, 

“Generally speaking, I entertain your scheme, but you have some- 
thing to do before I can promise you support. You have to ascertain 
whether your scoundrel will do what you require, and what he would 
want for doing it; and then you have to contrive a scheme by which 
you can insure that he will not take your money and laugh at 
you.” 

This announcement was received with eager nodding by Mr. Mawll, 
who seemed to be checking off the points gleefully. Then he said he 
was sure of Bowdler, knew him well, was once his dearest friend, had 
done business with him, and added, 

“ May I ask you to kindly cast your eye over that document ? The 
amount is blank, but you may take it that, when the amount is filled in 
to Bowdler’s satisfaction, Bowdler will sign that paper.” 

Heritage took the paper, and his visitor watched him as he read it 
‘with the complacency of a man who is convinced he has produced a cred- 
itable piece of work. It ran : 

“ Sir, — A s regards a bill for the sum of 

pounds, drawn by me at thirty days’ date, and accepted by 
Messrs. > I acknowledge that this acceptance 

will not be recoverable by me, or by any one to whom it may be trans- 
ferred, unless the strike in the iron smelting trade and the coal trade now 
existing ceases throughout the United Kingdom within fourteen days 
from this date; and in the event of the strike not so ceasing, I undertake 
to return the bill within twenty-one days from this date, or twelve days 
before the due date.” 


252 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ Yes,” said Heritage, handing back the document, “ it’s fair, but it 
will not hold a man of Bowdler’s stamp. He will take the bill to Delfoy, 
who will outbid us, if your statements are true.” 

“No,” said Mawll, decisively, “no, he will not take it to Delfoy, be- 
cause he will not run the risk of exposure. This letter is never to be 
given up by you in any event. If what you think probable, but which 
I say is impossible, were to occur, you would have twelve days in which 
to sell to Delfoy at the still further enhanced price, and you would at 
your own time cause this letter to be published, with the facts of the 
negotiations and Delfoy’s part in them, and insure the political and com- 
mercial ruin of both of them at the very time they were loaded with 
warrants. That is my case ; and I propose, if you please, to have a 
banker’s name on the bill — not yours — and I propose £30,000, as the 
bribe, of which, I should tell you, I propose to have five thousand my- 
self. You will find me open and above-board, sir,” added Mr. Mawll, 
with precipitation. 

Heritage laughed as he read the letter again. He was obliged to 
admit that Mr. Mawll of Madrid was an expert in setting traps for rogues, 
and said he would carry out the scheme if its details were observed ex- 
actly as they had been proposed. 

“ I knew you would,” remarked Mawll, with harsh emphasis, “ I was 
sure of it.” And then, suddenly changing his tone to one of insinuating 
appeal, he said, “ Did I hear your son had arrived ? May I have the 
pleasure of shaking him by the hand? It would inspire me, sir. May I?” 

The privilege was conceded. The compliments were overpowering, 
and Mr. Mawll left the house muttering “ wonderful,” “ surprising,” “ ex- 
traordinary,” and other exclamations provoked by the secret pleasure he 
experienced in contemplating the son of Muriel Balmain, formerly a client 
of Barcham, Newmans & Thirl. 

Few comprehend the charm of revolving in the mind a professional 
secret; and in this instance Mr. Mawll had the peculiar pleasure of know- 
ing more about the two people he had been talking with, in one impor- 
tant respect, than they knew themselves. 


Chapter XL 


SUFFERING 

“ Philip,” said Heritage, when Mawll had gone, that man is as great 
a scoundrel as it is possible to conceive of, yet I’m glad I have seen him ; 
and what is more, I intend to make use of his rascality. 

This was rather a shock to Philip, who had returned from his mission 
in a distinctly heroic frame of mind, born of youth and gentleness. He 
was depressed by a feeling of profound distress at the helpless condition 
of the people he had been among, who, in the name of “ liberty,” were 
driven like slaves by their own fellows, and in the name of “sacred 
rights ” were bidden to starve, and to see their children die of hunger, 
for a something called “ a principle.” And now he had come home to 
luxury and to rest, to find his step-father, whom he honored, and whose 
teaching had inspired him with a capacity to feel for others’ wrongs, 
traflBcking with rogues. His distress was apparent though he said noth- 
ing, and Heritage was pleased. He took him kindly by the shoulder, 
and smiling, said : 

“ It’s a case of big fishes feeding on little fishes, and that man is going 
to bait a hook to catch a whale. And what is more, I really think he’ll 
catch him.” 

Heritage’s spirits had revived. 

“ Now, tell me what you have seen down yonder,” he said. 

“I have seen enough,” said Philip, “to make me doubt whether there 
is a God in heaven, or any justice possible upon the earth. I have seen 
hundreds and thousands of serfs humbled before the most tyrannous of 
masters, their fellow-workmen, deprived of free-will, and coerced by the 
most irresistible of all taskmasters, an artificial conscience manufactured 
by their social surroundings and the fear of what their neighbors would 
think of them. They are at this moment submitting to hunger and 
privation of all sorts, and will even leave their houses rather than diso- 
bey their self-constituted leaders, whom they fancy they select. One 
man whom I got to confide in me said the alternative of submission was 
too dreadful to contemplate, and he added, with a solemnity that would 
have been laughable if it had not been shocking, ‘ Why, sir, if I was to 
die having left the Union they wouldn’t attend my funeral.’ ” 

“ And what is your remedy ?” asked Heritage. 

“ I know of none. Bowdler is a masterful man, and they follow him. 


254 


THE VEILED HAND 


He talks the high-sounding platitudes of his. class, and they applaud him. 
A phrase or two of his that is as false as a palpable untruth catches the 
fugleman ; they cheer it, and it is accepted by the mass. Promises are 
made that are impossible of fulfilment, and believed in because it would 
take hours to exhibit the fallacy that underlies them to the intelligence 
of those whom they delude. So the people suffer in their homes, and 
their leaders flourish and are flattered. Surely there should be some way 
of preventing such a wrong !” 

“ You have no remedy, you say,” answered Heritage, “ nor has any one 
else. The human diflficulty can never be overcome by any cut-and-dried 
system. It has to right itself by suffering. Sometimes the suffering is 
taken in experience, and sometimes in anxious inquiry after truth. It 
seldom comes by inspiration, and never by extraneous legislation. Be- 
fore the people effectually resist these false prophets they must learn by 
practical experience the working of economic laws, and they will do this 
by suffering from the breach of them. You do not appear,” added 
Heritage, in a changed tone, “ to have heard of your friend Delfoy in 
your moving about among the men.” 

“ He has not been there,” said Philip, indifferently, “ but he has been 
mentioned as a sympathizer.” 

“ He has ?” said Heritage, excitedly. “ Tell me what was said — pre- 
cisely, if you can.” 

“ Nothing material. He has been mentioned as a sympathizer, and as 
a subscriber to the strike fund, and a passage from one of his recent 
speeches was quoted by Bowdler ; but that is all, I think, we have heard 
of him.” 

“ Quite enough,” said Heritage. “ You talk of the doing of wrong 
and the preventing of suffering. Now, suppose all this suffering has 
been brought about by Delfoy and Bowdler to influence the markets, 
what would you say to that ?” 

“ That it was flendish work, and that such men should be sent to the 
hulks ; but how can you tell that it is so ?” 

“ I cannot tell, but I believe it is so. No one can tell, and yet we may 
believe it to be so. We cannot prove it by legal rule, but. we can be as- 
sured of it in fact, and that effusive old gentleman who left us as you 
came in will in a day or two give us some facts that will lead us to per- 
fectly sound conclusions. I shall then act in my own way, and prescribe 
my own punishment for the ringleader. You will help me in this, 
Philip ?” said Heritage, in his winning way. 

“ Most certainly,” was the answer. “ I shall be delighted if I can see 
a means of checking these men. It relieves me immensely to discover 
that you are sanguine of success ; and I do hope that I shall some day 
acquire your experience.” 

Heritage shook his head as he answered ; 


SUFFERING 


255 


“ I trust your experience will be less bitter than mine has been, Philip. 
I may have contributed to my sombreness of spirit by brooding too 
much upon the distresses of life, and taking too much to heart one’s 
errors of judgment and the consequences of one’s follies, but I cannot 
claim to have had a successful career or an agreeable experience of life, 
except in the one incident of my happiness with your mother and your 
mother’s children.” 

He smiled as he made the last remark, and Philip, with an effort, said : 

“If gratitude can add to your pleasure you should be rich in gladness, 
but I should like to see my way to repay your generosity by assisting 
in this Bowdler matter.” 

Heritage was grave for a while, and seemed in doubt. Then, turning 
to Philip, he said : 

“ I’m afraid you cannot. I’m sorry, but I have a special reason for 
asking you to avoid all connection with the business, and I may not tell 
you what that reason is. There is, however, another matter that I am 
bound to speak of — deeply concerning you, and that must not be left to 
accident.” 

He stopped and looked about him as he walked, and then approach- 
ing Philip, said in faltering tones : 

“You have a trial before you, Philip, imposed by honor and truth, and 
you may not shirk it. I have a trial before me, for I have a communi- 
cation to make to you that it would be criminal in me to delay, and 
which must give you pain. Both of us may have to suffer from causes 
that are none of our seeking or making, but which we find actively at 
work in our path, and which we dare not conceal lest they become hydra- 
headed scourges for ourselves and others in the future. Can you bear a 
[ trial, Philip?” 

I “ I must,” he answered, “ if it is imposed by you, and you say that it 
is mine to bear.” 

“ That is right, my dear boy. I have recently been thinking that you 
may to-day, to-morrow, at some time in the future think of marrying — 
I speak generally. When that time comes, it will become necessary for 
you to state to those who may, in such a case, have a right to know that 
there was some irregularity in your mother’s first marriage that makes 
you in law fatherless. I again put the case generally. What the facts 
are I do not know in detail, and no one knows, unless it be some 
who will not speak for your benefit. Your mother must not be asked ; 
and I think it better you should not inquire of any one. It is enough 
for us that I am your father now ; and I had designed that the truth 
should never have been revealed to you, even to this limited extent. 
Circumstances have, however, come to my knowledge recently which 
make it clear to me that you are in danger at some future time of hav- 
ing this fact thrust upon you when you may have allied yourself with 


256 


THE VEILED HAND 


another, and in circumstances which may reflect upon your truth and 
honor.” 

There was a pause. Looking at Philip’s horror-struck countenance, 
Heritage went on : 

“ Do not be over-anxious. It will be a small matter for you if taken 
boldly in hand now ; but think how grave it would be if at some time 
in the future ignorance were construed as concealment, and you were 
upbraided as a cheat. Why, such an incident would be terrible. The 
turn of a word would destroy confidence, where complete reliance was a 
necessary condition of happiness, and even of endurance. Think, in 
such a case as I have contemplated, what justice and honor command, 
what duty may compel.” 

Philip, who still remained silent, moved towards a chair, and sat with 
his arms folded on his breast, lost in thought, with a bitter curl upon his 
lip and an angry look in his eye. Heritage marked the attitude and 
demeanor, and it arrested him in his walk. Presently he said : 

“ I have not told you this, Philip, to pain you ; I have done so to 
prevent your experiencing a remorse that might to a sensitive nature 
prove unendurable. You are saying, perhaps, ‘Why was I told this?’ 
and you may upbraid me for having done so.” 

“No!” exclaimed Philip. “No, no! Nothing but kindness has 
ever been experienced by me from you. I blame no one but my fate ! 
Why was I born? Why do I live? To what end can these things 
tend ? For what purpose can such things be ?” 

He relapsed into his former attitude of angered endurance, and Her- 
itage, taking up his last few words, said quietly : 

“These questions you ask, Philip, I cannot answer. Perhaps it is 
wiser not to attempt to construe the purpose of our being and the inci- 
dents of our waking hours. The problem is too vast for human capaci- 
ty. We come from illimitable space enshrouded in impenetrable dark- 
ness. We emerge upon the margin of a little crescent of light that we 
call “life,” and having walked within it for a while, we pass out of it into 
the impenetrable darkness and ilTimitable space beyond. How can we, from 
what we see within the margin of this little crescent of light, construe 
the greater mysteries of creation ? The inscrutable lies before us ; and, 
looking back, although some see more clearly than others, very few can 
be sure that they see aright, and none can trust themselves to interpret 
with certainty the full purpose and effect of what they chance to see. 
We are finite, Philip, and only those who are inflated with the presump- 
tion of ignorance dare to dogmatize on the theory of the universe and 
the purposes of the Creator. Come, Philip,” added Heritage, “ forgive 
me for telling you the truth? When the necessity arises, perhaps I 
may help you to remove the diflSculty, such as it is; but, whatever we 
do, we must have no concealment in such matters.” 


Chapter XLI 
NO SURRENDER 


Philip received a dainty note of the newest fashion, folded length- 
wise. It was pink in color, and tinted with a device so as to resemble 
watered silk. The family crest was in the left-hand corner in gold, and 
a golden address was on the right. The whimsical girl wrote, in lines 
beginning at the left-hand top corner, and ending at the bottom right- 
hand corner, thus : 


“ Dearest Stranger, come to tea. 

The mother’s at home. 

The uncle’s gone to Aix, and I 

Am your very obedient servant, 
Your own Alice. 

COME ! ! ! !” 




A very unladylike letter — a reckless, butterfly letter — the letter of a 
mistress of a pocket borough of her own making, and the seat vacant — 
a captivating letter — a letter that fired Philip with a daring hope and 
crushed him with despair, for he was charged to declare himself of 
doubtful origin, with a bar sinister on an unknown coat of arms, ber 
neath a name unknown, and borne upon a breast that could not brook 
dishonor. 

She was waiting for him, arrayed in gossamer robes of blue, and the 
flossy silken hair was bound with a ribbon of blue, and yet was all di- 
shevelled in sprays and in bands that went hither and thither and glis- 
tened whenever light was near, however meagrely it shone; and he 
looked on the pure white skin, and the tinted cheek, and the laughing 
eye, and the hands that wore only one little ring upon them, and that 
was his. 

This was what he saw, and this was what he came to meet, and tell 
that life was a sad, sad trial at the best, and to him a cause of mourning 
and distress, and that life to them, as they had hoped and imagined it 
to be, was merely a mirage ; that the real life, the life that had to be 
lived and borne and suffered, was a broken toy, a roofless ruin, a mastless 
vessel stranded on the shore. 

All this and more he came to tell, and what did he say ? 

Not a word, because Lady Alice spoke first, and generally took him 


17 


258 


THE VEILED HAND 


in charge. She burst upon him, invaded his mind, and carried him off 
to entirely new subjects of absorbing interest and immediate concern, 
based upon his expedition among the labor malcontents. What could 
poor Philip do, with a weight upon his soul, all his heroics dissipated, 
and this most delightful butterfly of a human being pressing him into 
her service willy-nilly, with the vigor of an old-time midshipman leading 
a press-gang? 

“ I’ve been reading your speeches,” she said, “ and have pasted them 
all in a book. Here it is,” she added, opening a large quarto. “ Only 
one newspaper column on a page, to give room for my annotations, 
which are numerous and exacting as regards your future operations, but 
— imperative.” 

She said this with a stern countenance and a whimsical glitter in her 
eye, but Philip could only smile sadly and nurse a faint hope. 

“Now it depends upon you, Philip, when Mr. Foolcher — my present 
member — will apply for the Chiltern Hundreds and go ; and it depends 
upon you, because it depends upon me, and because I depend upon you, 
and because we’re all depending upon one another. That’s a paraphrase 
of one of your speeches, Mr. Political Economist, but I must say I con- 
sider that was a very good idea of yours about none of us being inde- 
pendent. I’ve marked it ‘very good’ in my annotations. But, for all 
that, it is so very good you mustn’t say it when down with my people, 
because the clergyman tells me that they are all very much impressed 
with the belief that they are extremely dependent on me, and I think 
they had better remain under that impression.” 

Philip bowed, and as they were alone he kissed her. He couldn’t 
help it. Despite his heavy heart and his desperate resolution, gratifled 
vanity and love together made the way for him, and floated him like a 
feather on the wind into the arms of the Lady Alice. 

“Well, that’s settled,” said his mistress, “you’ve sealed the compact 
beforehand. That shows confldence ; and now I’ll tell you all about it. 
We’ll sit down first.” 

They sat in a bay window looking out on the park, and the tea was 
placed round the corner on a dainty whirligig service for three, for 
form’s sake ; but there were only two, as the countess had had a tiff 
with her daughter over this election business, and had assumed a head- 
ache to avoid being present. 

To some. mothers it is a source of special annoyance that their daugh- 
ters grow up ; but when, added to this work of time, circumstances make 
them practically mistress of their own actions, the grievance is beyond 
endurance, and necessarily results in headaches and a disregard of con- 
sequences. It is quite true that no matter what the years of a daughter, 
and however independent in estate she may be, she is always subject to 
influences that her mother may legitimately exercise ; but as these influ- 


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ences take tbeir rise in an invariable respect and devotion on the one 
part, and the natural growth of tender solicitude on the other, it is obvi- 
ous they must be left out of consideration in this case. 

“ You must understand, Philip,” said the Lady Alice, “that I’ve been 
doing Mr. Foolcher’s subscriptions for him for some time past ; and my 
bargain with him was that he should sit as long as he could manage it, 
and that he should not retire without letting me know before he told 
any one else, so that he might arrange the day with me when he was to 
retire. Now, what do you think ?” she asked, starting back with be- 
witching roguery and motioning him afar off, as if to see the effect of 
her questioning ; then, with a rush, she exclaimed, “ Mr. Foolcher wants 
to retire, and nobody knows it but me — and you. So you’ll have to 
write your address and make your arrangements, and then we will give 
Mr. Foolcher his marching orders.” 

She leaped from her chair, clapped her hands, made an attempt at a 
pirouette, and returned the kiss, blown off the tips of her fingers at a 
distance. 

But there sat Philip, as sad as any conventional prototype of classic 
grief, wholly unable to respond in appropriate terms to the offer of this 
glorious opportunity, llis silence was so incomprehensible that the 
Lady Alice stopped to consider the position, and leaning towards him, 
as she stood with a cup of tea in her hand, half-way to her lips, she 
said, 

“ Well, and isn’t the prospect pleasing?” 

Then came the outburst — a perfect maelstrom of regret and denuncia- 
tion of fate, all beyond the comprehension of the Lady Alice, who lis- 
tened in amazement, in pain, in gentle concern for one whose case was 
hers, she liked to think, and in whose hopes her own were centred, be 
cause he was the first she had ever met whose spirit and ambitions were 
ingenuous and free from sordid ends. 

“Oh, Alice,” he cried, “lam most miserable! Your goodness and 
kindness break in upon me with all the strength of your beauty — for you 
are beautiful, Alice, and I make no empty compliment. This is no time 
for compliment. I do not know, I cannot tell whether I should accept 
your offer in this matter. There is no reason why I should not — ” 

“ Then accept it,” she interposed, flinging her arms wide open with 
the intensity of her demand. 

“ And yet,” he continued, unheeding, “ if I accept I shall by that ac- 
ceptance imply continued acquiescence in the other greater matter con- 
cerning which we have agreed in ignorance ; and oh, my heart, my love, 
my hope of future happiness and life of love, I cannot tell my misery to 
you.” 

“ But what’s the matter. What have you done ?” she exclaimed, with 
her hands brought fprward, and with marks of pain upon her brow. 


260 


THE VEILED HAND 


This wholly unexpected and incomprehensible barrier to the continua- 
tion of her work annoyed her. She was an eminently practical young 
woman, with a strong will of her own, artfully concealed within a form 
of gossamer and by a manner of studied frivolity. Philip’s attitude 
seemed likely to remove the light surroundings of this strong will and 
practical common sense, and exhibit these characteristics in all their 
vigor. He shook his head, and said, in trembling tones, 

“ I cannot tell. You must ask ray father.” 

“ Ask your father?” she exclaimed, in falsetto. “ Why, I never prom- 
ised to marry him ! Philip, you’re a goose !” 

There was no time for a reply. A footman entered and announced 
the arrival of Mr. Foolcher, a short, stout old gentleman with a red face, 
a bushy beard of iron-gray hair, a choleric temperament, and a martyr to 
gout. He said he dared not sit down, because when he did it took two 
men to get him on his legs again, and that his language during the 
process was not fit for the ears of ladies. He continued walking about 
the room with a stick, and apologized for keeping on the move, but said 
he really could not help it. He was ordered to do a certain amount of 
exercise every day, in-doors or out, and he preferred to do it all at once, 
because the moment he stopped he had to swear to keep the pain down. 

“ And that’s the new Member, eh ?” he continued, on being introduced 
to Philip. “ Lucky dog. Quite young, good-looking, fine prospect — 
damme, sir, you ought to be proud of the chance,” he shouted, with an 
angry look at Philip, followed by an extra twinge in the right leg and a 
sudden collapse of his resentment. 

“ Ah, well, I only wish I’d got his prospects,” he said, apologetically, 
to the Lady Alice, as he marched by her towards the other end of the 
room. “ But what can a man do ? What’s the use of having a seat in 
the House if you cannot sit down on it with comfort? Why, it’s an 
absurd proposition ; I say, sir, it’s absurd,” he said, shaking his stick at 
Philip, as if he had contradicted him. 

Philip bowed. 

“What a prospect!” he went on, getting angry again. “Youth, 
health, money, estates, no troubles, no gout, every opportunity for dis- 
tinguishing himself, wise counsellors, and — and — ” The old gentleman 
pulled himself up in front of them, and looked from one to the other 
with glistening eyes and smiling lips that failed to express the thought 
that wrestled in his brain, and finally gave vent to a long-drawn-out 
“Ah I I shouldn’t wonder,” and went off at a trot. 

Presently he returned, and as he came along he said : 

“Well, my dear, let’s to business. I always call her ‘my dear,’ 
sir, always have since she was in long clothes — oh Lord ! I wish I 
was in long clothes now. When shall I apply for the Hundreds, eh ? 
That’s our business. We’ve got to name the day. Ha, ah 1 lucky 


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261 


dog !” and he tramped along shaking his head and chuckling at his 
humor. 

“ Well, Mr. Foolcher,” said Lady Alice from behind the tea-table, and 
blushing just a little. “ I’m sure I’m much obliged to you for coming, 
and we mustn’t keep you ; but Mr. Heritage will call on you and let you 
know, or if you cannot see him, will write to you.” 

“Very good, my dear; quite right, quite right. I must be off. 
Please to ring, sir, for my man to get me down-stairs. Horrible busi- 
ness going down-stairs, jars everything — nerves, bones, muscles, every- 
thing. Good-bye, sir, wish you success ; good-bye, my dear, God bless 
you. Let me know the day. They’re all at me — a parcel of vultures — 
but I’ll tell none of them. Trust Mark Foolcher for keeping to a bar- 
gain.” 

And away he tramped (led by his man, who met him at the drawing- 
room door), grumbling and swearing by turns, down the stairs, and out 
of the house, and out of life — a rare old dog that had had bis day and 
growled only because he couldn’t have another. 

“Now,” said the Lady Alice when Mr. Foolcher had gone — “now, yon 
see, the election is in your hands, and you will have to go on ; and now, 
tell me what’s the matter, for, upon my word, you’re a riddle as you 
stand.” 

She folded her arms as she spoke, and looked at him with her head 
on one side, in the manner of one appraising him. 

“ Yes,” answered Philip, “ I will try. I will endeavor to speak quietly 
and briefly, and you must consider the matter coldly and dispassionately.” 

She nodded, and the creases came in her brow, for she began to feel 
annoyed at what she conceived to be an unreasonable interception on his 
part. 

“ In the first place,” he began, “ the name of Heritage is not mine by 
right.” 

“Yes, we know that,” she commented. “You have assumed it, as 
people often do assume names, on taking property. That’s nothing. 
But I like the name, and that’s a good deal,” she added, with a toss of 
the head. 

“ In the second place,” said Philip, looking down, “ I heard only yes- 
terday, for the first time, from my step-father that my real name is un- 
known to him ; that the name he first knew us by is not our name ; 
that, in fact, I have no name ; that my parentage is obscure, and that 
it may be even disgraceful.” 

Her face blanched, and a premonition of giddiness came upon her. 
He looked askance at her, timidly at first ; and then, as he marked the 
effects of the shock his communication had made upon her, he regained 
the courage of obligation, and, with a countenance pitiable to behold, he 
said : 


262 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ You see, Alice, how impossible it is even to contemplate your asso- 
ciation with one whose origin is discredited, and whose real name may 
be the very mark of dishonor.” 

“ Why did you tell me of this ?” she asked, with her eyes cast 
down. 

Her wilfulness provided her with only one thought on the matter — 
the communication was an intrusion. 

“ How could I refrain ?” asked Philip. “ Concealment was impossi- 
ble in such a case.” 

“ Well,” she cried, with a petulant shake of the head and a wry face, 
“ it’s very annoying.” Then she took a turn in the room as Mr. Fool- 
cher had done, eyed Philip furtively, and said, holding her hands behind 
her back as if she had been a statesman instructing an ambassador, “ I 
don’t see that you look very different from what you did when I last saw 
you. Do you feel different?” 

Philip shook his head and said, 

“ I don’t know, Alice, whether you comprehend fully what I have 
said, but you do not seem to.” 

“ Oh yes, I do,” she answered, “ and I want to hear no more. It’s 
disagreeable, but it must be put up with. We cannot have all our fur- 
niture covered with velvet,” she continued, in dismal tones ; and then, 
with some asperity, asked, “ who knows of this ?” 

“ No one but my step-father, so far as I know, and perhaps my 
mother.” 

“ Philip,” said the Lady Alice solemnly, after much reflection, “ you 
are a goose.” She looked at him, leaning forward with the air of a dic- 
tatorial governess. “ Does your step-father throw you over ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Is there going to be any difference at your home ?” 

“ None.” 

“ Then why should there be any difference with me ? I’m not pro- 
posing to marry a name. If I had troubled about names I should have 
accepted Lord Fowley, but then I should have had to -be a peeress in 
course of time — a dreadful responsibility ! Philip,” she added, “ if you 
have no other reason than this for disturbing our arrangements, wc will 
dismiss the subject, and begin your address to the electors.” 

Philip shook his head — a doleful, weak, miserable shake of the head — 
a sort of protest without the backbone in it. 

“ Now, do you know, Philip,” said the persistent young lady, “ I 
have acquired quite a new interest in you. I regard you in quite a new 
light. I think I shall end by getting desperately fond of you.” 

“ Indeed,” said Philip ; “ a new light, you say ?” 

“ Yes, quite a new light. You see, Philip, I have up to this been only 
interested and pleased at your entering into my plans. Now I am anx- 


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263 


ious about you personally. It must be this difficulty you have started 
that has done this ; but really you are quite interesting.” 

She gazed at him at a little distance, with her eyebrows raised, as if 
he had been a new and rare curio sent in for approval. 

“You mustn’t joke of this, Alice. It is very serious. The most seri- 
ous thing that can ever happen to us in all our lives is happening now, 
and I cannot consent to regard it in any other light.” 

“ Precisely. It makes an immense difference. Up to the present hour 
I have been merely complacent and assenting. Now I am forced to be- 
come importunate; and you, in the new relations, must be as responsive 
as I was in the old. Now go home and consult your father about the 
address, and about the time, and call to-morrow morning with every- 
thing ready.” 

But Philip did not go. He remained to reap the reward of his incon- 
stancy to grave resolutions of self-denial. Why, if he had relinquished 
the grand ambition of sacrificing his passion on the altar of duty, should 
he not bask in the smile of the siren who had won him back to fealty ? 
And why, if a goddess refused his sacrifice and threw down his altar, 
should he not worship the goddess in the way she wished ? 

He was only human. 


Chapter XLII 


THE AUTOCRAT OF LABOR 

Not the least curious among current fallacies is that which assigns to 
the different classes of the community a different kind of human nature. 
As virtue and industry are held to be the characteristics of the very poor, 
so vice and idleness are presumed to be the marks of the very wealthy; 
and while to be an employer is to develop a thirst for man’s blood, so 
to labor for wages is to cultivate a meek and enduring spirit. Following 
upon these general conceptions of the state of society, it was deduced by 
Mr. Bowdler, M.P., and commonly accepted as a truth by his hearers, 
that such and such a man must be good because he received wages, and 
that such another must be bad because he paid them. The extraordi- 
nary fact that some very poor men who received wages had become very 
rich men and paid them, and had associated with the paying of wages a 
rapacious and grinding disposition, was regarded as a proof of the essen- 
tial difference in the natures of the very wealthy and the very poor; and 
it had been asserted by the followers of Bowdler that such men could 
not help becoming rich because they were essentially brutal, and that if 
they had not been brutal they could not possibly have become rich. 

How it came to pass from these premises that Mr. Bowdler had left 
his comfortable chambers in Westminster to spend exhausting days and 
nights in the northern counties, denouncing, exhorting, and appealing as 
only Bowdler could, to the end that those whom he addressed should 
take steps to secure more of this corroding gold than they possessed, 
was a mystery to the logician, and was to be accounted for only upon 
the presumption that he hoped to decrease the evil by diluting it. His 
hearers were controlled by a commoner influence ; they were quite pre- 
pared to accept the consequences if they had the gold, and firmly be- 
lieved- Bowdler could get it for them. 

Bowdler was a grand man for agitation. His language was enriched 
with the choicest expletives and the most unqualified denunciation of 
everything and everybody that displeased him. Nothing to him was 
sacred but the object immediately present to him ; and nothing was true 
but his own dogmas. He revelled in coarse ribaldry and comtemptuous 
sneers at all those who wore gloves — which he did himself at times — or 
rode in carriages — which he also did himself, as opportunity offered. He 
denounced all capitalists as tyrants and destroyers, without mentioning 


THE AUTOCRAT OF LABOR 


265 


that he had himself several large investments in industrial companies; 
and in the matter of tyranny no autocrat who ever sat upon a throne 
was more exacting of blind obedience, and none more resolutely pursued 
and tortured revolting followers, save only that he did not extend to 
them the relief of death. Of pity for the suffering women and children 
he had none. With Draconian severity he put “ the cause ” above every 
obligation, human and divine ; and in his pursuit of an imaginary freedom 
he reduced every man within the scope of his organization to abject 
slavery. 

Still he had been successful, and the country was in flames. He was 
in a thoroughly gleeful state of mind as he read the London papers one 
day at lunch, recording somewhat exaggerated reports of the privations 
of the work-people and their families. 

“That’ll fetch ’em,” said he to himself, shaking his head— “ that’ll 
put the screw on the employers.” And he mentally resolved, as he drank 
a glass of champagne, to draw a few harrowing pictures of this same 
suffering in his next speech, and denounce the masters as the cause of it. 
He was ruminating over the point in full view of a very choice leg of 
mutton, when a card was brought to him bearing the name of “ Mawll.” 

“ A gentleman, you say ?” he asked of the waiter. 

“ Yes, sir, an old gentleman. May be a clergyman, sir.” 

“ Ah, dear me,” ruminated the agitator. “ ‘ Mawll.’ Don’t know him, 
John. And he doesn’t state his business?” 

“ No, sir ; says it’s quite private.” 

“ Ah,” said Bowdler, “ he won’t state his business, and he’s a gentle- 
man. Now, John, why should I see a gentleman? I ask you, John, 
why should I see a gentleman ?” 

John, who was a diplomatist, in the sense that he always agreed with 
the occupants of private rooms on all subjects whatever, even if he 
vowed adhesion to half a dozen contrary opinions in one day, said he 
didn’t see that Mr. Bowdler should put himself out for a gentleman. 

“ No, John, you’re right. I’m for the industrial classes. I’m not for 
gentlemen. If this person cannot state his business, I cannot see this 
person, John ; and if I don’t like the looks of his business when he does 
state it, I will not see him neither. Ask him his business, John, and take 
his card with you John.” 

Having thus vindicated the dignity of the profession of agitator, and 
the superiority of manual labor over all other occupations, Mr. Bowdler 
cut himself another slice of mutton and poured out another glass of 
champagne. 

John returned with a slip of paper on which was written the words, 
“ An important communication of a private nature from a fellow-laborer.” 

Bowdler read the paper with every show of deep thought, and then 
suddenly exclaimed, 


266 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ Good ! John, show Mr. Mawll up.” 

Mr. Mawll entered, with his hat in his hand, and with his humblest 
missionary spirit strongly expressed in the slight stoop and the half-closed 
eyes. He assured Mr. Bowdler that only the urgency and importance of 
the communication he had to make would have induced him to intrude 
upon Mr. Bowdler’s privacy. 

“Take a seat, sir,” said the important personage addressed. “I’m 
pressed for time, and you’ll excuse me going on with my lunch.” 

Bowdler had an impression that his visitor was hungry. He thought 
of the starving work-people as he looked at him, and imagined how the 
hunger would grow in acuteness as he saw another eat. 

“State your business,” he said. “I’m listening,” and he filled his 
mouth. 

“ Well, Bowdler,” said the visitor, “as the waiter’s gone, I’m Newmans.” 

“ What !” exclaimed Bowdler, dropping his knife and fork, “ New- 
mans ! ’Pon my life, so it is. Here, have some lunch.” 

With this he rose and rang the bell, ordered Mr. Mawll to be served, 
and both maintained an absolute silence during the time the waiter was 
in the room. 

John regarded this as strange and unconstitutional from a waiter’s 
point of view. He cast a sidelong glance at Bowdler and found him 
waiting with the carving knife in hand for the plate John was to proffer, 
and he remarked an amused and contented expression on his countenance. 
The visitor, he noticed, kept his eyes on the table-cloth, daring the proc- 
ess of serving with an appearance of humility which led John to the 
conclusion that he was not a clergyman, and certainly not a gentleman, 
which also, he thought, accounted for Mr. Bowdler’s affability. 

“John,” said Bowdler, as he observed the waiter had lifted a knife, a 
fork, and a spoon in succession, and put them down again objectlessly 
and nervously, as indicating that he was ready to leave the room, “ decant 
a bottle of the port — my particular, John.” 

Obviously the visitor was not a gentleman, thought John — perhaps a 
delegate, and no doubt an influential one. John left the room with the 
knowledge that he must be careful about the decanting, and have a good 
show of beeswing or there would be trouble. It was within John’s ex- 
perience that delegates were particular. 

“ Now, upon my soul,” exclaimed Bowdler, when they were alone, 
“ you astonish me, turing up here in this out-of-the-way place, and in 
that fig too. Upon ray soul, I didn’t know you.” 

“No, said Newmans, laconically, “I didn’t expect you to.” 

“ It wasn’t difficult to find me, eh ?” said Bowdler, with a knowing 
shake of the head. “ I suppose I’m a good deal in people’s mouths just 
now, eh ? Easier to find me than to find you, eh ? Ha, ha ! How’s the 
world using you?” 


THE AUTOCRAT OF LABOR 


267 

“ Very well,” said Newmans— “ very well indeed ; and if you study 
your own interests in what l am come about, it will use me better.” 

Newmans said this with a snap and a keen glance at Bowdler, and 
then went on with the mutton. 

“Why, what have I got to do with you, nowT asked Bowdler, with 
some concern. 

Nothing,” said Newmans, “ I have come about your business, not 
mine. I’ve come all the way straight to you from over yonder — about 
your business here;'"' and he rapped the table with his knife-handle, and 
regarded his friend earnestly. 

“Oh,” said Bowdler, with concern, “you surprise me.” 

“ I meant to,” was the rejoinder, and the conversation stopped with 
the entrance of John bearing the port. 

Cheese and celery, John Cheshire, mindj none of your foreign 
products for me.” Saying which Bowdler took up the decanter of port 
and held it up to the light as he exclaimed, “ See it ! Look at it ! I’ve 
never seen nothing like it. Look at it floating about. Lord, it might 
have been cut off a dragon fly. Special tap, John, ain’t it ?” said 
Bowdler, appealing to John. 

“ Yes sir ; it’s been in the cellar here for forty year — laid in by the 
old landlord for the iron-masters’ meetings ; and nobody cares for it now 
exceptin’ one or two gentlemen like yourself.” 

“ Ah,” said Bowdler, “ it’s wonderful the ignorance of people. Why, 
if the aristocracy, as they call theirselves, were worth a red cent, some of 
’em would have been down here with a French cook on purpose to drink 
it out. Why, there’s nothing like it in the kingdom. No, Mawll, noth- 
ing. A pure accident, but there’s nothing like it.” 

Saying which he tasted it, and Newmans tasted it, and they agreed 
that it was wonderful. When John had withdrawn the serious colloquy 
began. 

“ Now, Newmans,” said Bowdler, “ out with it — straight.” 

“ To be sure,” said Newmans. And then, in a low tone, he added, 
“your movements have attracted great interest over yonder — and I 'have 
come with a proposition.” 

“ Indeed,” said Bowdler, more complimented by the statement that 
his movements were observed on the Continent than by any adulation, 
however extravagant, exhaled from British soil. “Now, how’s that?” 

“ There’s been a bear syndicate working over yonder,” said Newmans, 
always associating the phrase “ over yonder ” with a backward jerk of the 
head, “ and you’ll break the bear syndicate if you go on.” 

Bowdler assumed his most distinguished parlimentary air, sitting back 
in his chair, with his left thumb in the armhole of his waistcoat, with 
his right hand fingering the stem of his wineglass, and with compressed 
lips and a thoroughly self-confident demeanor. He nodded three or four 


268 


THE VEILED HAND 


times, as indicating his high appreciation of the compliment paid him 
by the people “over yonder” watching his movements and commission- 
ing an emissary to treat with him — thereby generally asserting that 
Bowdler was a power; and now that a foreign ambassador had been sent 
to him — albeit his old friend Newmans, alias Mawll — quite a potentate. 

“ Your friends are right,” said he, at length, leaning forwai’d, with his 
arm upon the table. “Your friends had better close the account at 
once.” 

“ Well, no,” said Newmans, quietly. “ They hold it open till I have 
completed my commission.” 

“ And what is your commission?” 

“ To close the strike.” 

“ What !” cried Bowdler, in a modulated shriek. “Howling demons, 
Newmans, what are you talking about?'’ 

“Nothing very extraordinary,” said Newmans, placing both liis hands 
on the table and looking at them as he pressed the table-cloth. He 
seemed to be pressing the excitement out of his friend. When he ap- 
peared to have got it all out to his satisfaction, he said, quietly, “ There’s 
more money in stopping the strike than going on with it.” 

“ What !” gasped Bowdler, amazed at the novelty and daring of the 
declaration. 

“There’s money over yonder,” said Newmans, with the usual jerk. 
“ If you go on, they stand to lose. If you stop, they win to a certainty. 
They are prepared to pay to win. I mentioned no names, but I said I 
thought I could manage to get the strike stopped, and here I am. And 
Bowdler,” he added, impressively, “ now’s your chance — the chance of a 
lifetime. You know me, Bowdler, and I say it’s the chance of a life- 
time.” 

“ God, Newmans,” said Bowdler, in a hoarse whisper ; “ if it was any- 
body but you I’d run away rather than talk of sich a thing.” 

Then he rose up, put his hands in his trousers-pockets, and walked 
the room in his excitement. His eyes glistened, his lips worked, and his 
large eyebrows seemed to twitch as the weighty considerations involved 
were passed in review. Presently he stopped in front of his friend, and 
said with a grin, 

“ Newmans, my buck, you’re a marvel. How do you put it ?” 

“ First, how much do you stand to make by going on ?” asked New- 
mans. Then, finding Bowdler hesitated, he added, “You needn’t be 
squeamish with me. Tell me straight, and we’ll measure the considera- 
tions. If I cannot make it worth your while to do what I want. I’ll go 
back at once, and leave you to win on your own hand.” 

Bowdler walked the room again ; and Newmans, still sitting at the 
table, as he had sat throughout, watched him keenly, with perfect com- 
posure, giving the ideas time to work and saturate the brain. Newmans 


THE AUTOCRAT OF LABOR 


269 


Was never in a hurry to get a man to his way of thinking. He would 
say to himself : “ It has taken me a week to think that out and frame 
the scheme. Surely I must give a man five minutes to comprehend it 
and approve it.” He did so on this occasion, watching the ideas grow. 

Bowdler continued to walk, and his face continued to work. Then 
he went to the door, opened it, closed it, and returning to his seat, leaned 
over to his friend and whispered, 

“ Over five thou.” 

“ And my friends over yonder will give you four times that to stop in 
a week,” said Newmans, scarcely moving his lips, but with his eyes in- 
tently fixed on his friend. 

“ Twenty ?” asked Bowdler. 

Newmans nodded. 

“ All clear for me?” 

Another nod. 

“ No com. to you ?” 

Newmans shook his head. 

“ Nor to anybody ?” 

Another shake. 

“ Well, that’ll have to be a deal,” said Bowdler, “ if it can be done 
proper,” and he rose up for another walk. Presently he turned on his 
friend, and said : “ Look here, Newmans, you was always a dab at 
scheming, and I suppose you’ve got it all in your square old noddle, cut- 
and-dried, as you used to. Now, how’s it to be done safe and proper? 
I musn’t be sold, you know.” 

“ No,” said Newmans. “ I’ll get you as good as money down to-mor- 
row in London if you agree.” 

“ But I’ve a meeting to-morrow — a tremendous mass-meeting.” 

“ If we start to-night, and you don’t find things to your liking when 
you get to town, you can be back for your meeting to-morrow night. If 
things are satisfactory, you’ll be taken ill in London. Broken leg — ac- 
cident, catching the train.” 

“ Ah!” said Bowdler, who commenced another walk; and then, taking 
his seat, and sidling up to his visitor, he said, in confidential tones, 
“You know, my friend, there’s something very inviting about this pro- 
posal of yourn. Between you and me, there’s a deal of ingratitude 
about these working-men. They don’t seem to care about the men that 
work for them. They’ll cheer, you know. Oh yes, they’ll cheer, and 
you may starve in the gutter the next day if they don’t want to use you 
for their own ends. Now, you know this twenty thou, you talk of will 
make all the difference between bare subsistence and competence to me. 
If we pull this off,” he went on with growing excitement, and yet with 
bated breath, “ why, I shall be quite independent of them, and be able to 
deal with public questions with a free hand. I shall be able to cut the 


270 


THE VEILED HAND 


painter and leave them, with their low, mean ways, to grovel in the 
dirt. There’s worse men than me been in the Government afore to- 
day,” he added, with a shake of the head and a sour look. 

Bowdler was expressing in this outburst of confidence no uncommon 
experience. It is given to few, indeed, to bear an undeviating record for 
consistency in morals, in business, or in politics. To the majority of 
men the course that seems honorable and just to-day is often felt- by 
the same minds to be an act of folly or imprudence on the morrow. 
What to-day may be pressed upon a fellow-man, as due to him for ben- 
efits conferred, and yet leave the debt unpaid, would in the near future 
be withheld as a preposterous acknowledgment of services forgotten or 
despised. What was singular in Bovvdler’s reflection was the apparent 
ignorance of the fact that the selfish forgetfulness of which he com- 
plained was not peculiar to the mechanics and laborers with whom he 
was associated. The infirmity is common to all classes, and it was 
Bowdler’s own vanity that magnified the ingratitude in his case, if, in- 
deed, it could be «aid that his followers were ungrateful, when they were 
only ignorant of his epicurean tastes and his passion for beeswing. 

“ And now look here,” he continued, as if he had suddenly applied his 
remarks to himself, “ where do you come in ?” 

Newmans worked his mouth round as if he were extracting a smile * 
from among his molar teeth, and then said, 

“ After you.” 

“ The worst of it is,” said Bowdler, hardly noticing the remark, and 
reverting to his relations with his followers, “ I’m always obliged to keep 
such a friendly face towards these fellows I work for, and I’m always 
obliged to pretend things are so beautiful among ’em : that they’ve such 
sweet tempers, and that they lead such lovely lives, and all the rest of 
the cant, it makes me sick. By-the-way, Newmans, I shall have to make 
it all right with some of the delegates, you know. How’s that to be 
done?” 

“ After you,” repeated Newmans, absolutely smiling on this occasion. 
Newmans was so delighted to see his ideas sprout and grow and bear 
fruit that he almost laughed. 

“ Well,” said Bowdler, again walking in his excitement, “ you’ve never 
sold me yet ; but, upon my life, it’s an awful risk you’re asking me to • 
run.” ! 

“You may be quite easy,” said Newmans. “There’ll be enough to ] 
satisfy everybody, me included, and it will all pass through your hands. *• 
Now for the next train to London I” \ 


Chapter XLIII 


A ROUND OF THE CLOCK 

Hitherto the incidents recorded in these pages have followed each 
other in natural sequence and in chronological order. They have been 
evolved the one from the other as the sparks fly upward, as the quick- 
ened seed bursts and grows, as the sickle follows the plough. Now we 
come, in a single round of the clock, upon six occurrences almost simul- 
taneous in point of time, and four of them happening within an area 
coverable by a flfteen minutes’ walk in the western portion of the city. 
The other two happened in the country, many miles apart, but each at 
the same hour of the day. As nearly as the six incidents can be placed, 
they fall in the order in which they are here set down ; and although of 
special interest to those engaged in them, they were in some respects of 
more importance to others as yet in ignorance of their coming to pass. 

Bray on the Mysteries 

It had become the custom of Mr. Marmaduke Bray to call upon Mrs. 
Delfoy at unusual hours — at eleven in the morning, at two in the after- 
noon, on the eve of lunch, with the intention of joining in it, at any time 
! when it would be probable he could have an opportunity of dazzling his 
! , hostess with his magniloquent conversation. He coined phrases laborious- 
' ly and let them off as impromptu. He consulted dictionaries of quotations 
i from the poets, and artfully led up to the subject of which they treated, 

1 and startled his hearer with a burst of second-hand eloquence. He con- 
! cocted vague approaches to epigram that startled even the intelligent by 
j their daring, and made sober men think, because they meant nothing. 

' He was a curious man. He made one wonder whether he really be- 
ij lieved himself capable, or whether he knew he was a charlatan and glo- 
i ried in the deception he practised on the unwary. Some who had stud- 
I i'ed him well inclined to the latter alternative, because of the choice he 
) made of hearers, and yet his successes were so obvious that he would 
. have been almost justifled in self-deception. 

He had taken lunch with Mrs. Delfoy, and had begun his customary 
didactic monologue in the drawing-room. He had described some great 
: reception he had been present at, and had deplored the indifference of 
; Delfoy to any such means of acquiring popularity. From this he com- 
mented upon Delfoy’s continued absence from his “ domestic hearth,” 


I 


272 


THE VEILED HAND 


and sympathizing with his hostess in the consequences of that defect in 
character, recommended her to have assemblies of her own, and offered 
to assist in realizing so commendable an ambition. 

“That would be nice,” she simpered. “Perhaps Geoffrey would come 
if I had nice people. You are very good, Mr. Bray, and very kind. I 
do feel lonely.” 

“Delfoy is not a wise man,” said Bray, on the march. “He is brill- 
iant, he has genius, but he is not wise." 

“But, then, you’re sa clever,” languished Mrs. DelfCy, “and so domes- 
ticated. Geoffrey never was domesticated. He never could a - bear 
cats.” 

Mrs. Delfoy plaited her skirt and sighed hopelessly at this reflection, 
but smiled as her companion expatiated on the shortcomings of her 
spouse. Said he : 

“ In that Delfoy is wrong. Cats are a necessary part of the animal 
economy. They are the mouse-trap of nature. This is a world of com- 
promise. Remove cats and we are overrun with rats. Endure cats and 
our pantries are freed from the rodent. It is our duty, therefore, to tol- 
erate cats." 

“ How delightful !” was murmured from the sofa. 

“ Delfoy,” continued the oracle, “ is, I am sorry to say, disposed to be 
intolerant. He cultivates impatience rather than repose, and in that he 
violates the genius of nature. Nature has its outbursts, its torrents, its 
avalanches, its earthquakes, and its deluges, but in the main nature is 
repose." 

The head on the sofa waved to and fro with the cadence of the so- 
norous voice. As each platitude rolled forth she clasped her hands re- 
sponsive to the accent on the last word, and thought it all wonderful and 
past belief that so much enjoyment could be imparted with so little ap- 
parent effort. 

“ The movement of the million suns of the firmament,” he went on, 
“ continue their undeviating course, and are the embodiment of reposeful 
power. Man need not be violent to be strong. Quiet, repose, gentleness, 
my dear Mrs. Delfoy, are the true evidences of strength and vigor of 
purpose.” 

He took his seat beside her, and involuntarily she put her hand in his, 
and with the other stemmed the welling tears of joy. 

“ Oh, my dear Mr. Bray,” she sighed, “ how unfortunate I am.” 

“We must bear misfortune,” he said, in modulated tones suitable to 
the tender emotions. “We must do more, we must bear each other's 
misfortunes.” 

There was a movement — a little jerk — on the part of the lady in the 
direction of her companion, and a decided inclination of her head tow- 
ards his shoulder. A catastrophe seemed to be inevitable. 


A ROUND OF THE CLOCK 


273 


“Misfortune and distress, my dear Mrs. Delfoy,” be murmured, “are 
the necessary discords in the harmonies of nature.” 

His companion sighed, and he went on, 

“ But Nature compensates by her affinities ; and affinities, we rejoice 
to know, are nurtured by the pleasures of adversity.” 

The catastrophe happened. The poor silly head fell, and the heart' 
that was associated with it ceased to plod with the regularity of a pump- 
ing-engine', and fluttered in an ecstasy. 

“ Oh, my dear Mr. Bray, let me dream of happiness,” she murmured. 

“ Yes, dear lady,” he apostrophized. “ It is indeed a dream — a dream 
of the unattainable, the impossible, the mirage of existence, the crown of 
miseries, the apex of distress, the acute unknown.” 

Gently disengaging himself from the thraldom of her devotion, he rose 
from the couch, and made a theatrical passage to the centre of the room, 
where he stood pressing his hands upon his temples as if he were engaged 
in a process of keeping these overpowering thoughts within bounds. 
Then, lifting his right hand solemnly, he exclaimed, in sonorous bass : 

“ Let us not attempt to penetrate the mysteries of the great Arcana. 
Let us beware how we trespass within the circle of the Astral light. No 
human brain has ever done so with impunity, not even when standing in 
the midst of the pentegram of the ancient Kabala, and when initiated in 
all the learning of Zoroaster.” 

He paused again, and his victim gazed upon his impressive countenance 
with admiration, not unmixed with awe and even terror. He motioned 
her with his left hand' to be calm, and having walked to and fro for a 
time or two, he approached her and said, 

“Yes, madam. We will dine together. I will call at 7.30, and we 
will seek the retirement of a pleasant hostlery where we can converse in 
the privacy of the crowd.” 

The Erechtheum 

There was a strange contradiction in the character of Geoffrey. Delfoy. 
Some of his schemes, especially those founded upon the utilization of 
great social forces, exhibited marvellous powers for administration ; and 
in his capacity for reticence and restraint of his unconquerable egotism 
he showed how high a place he could have taken among the -Order of 
the Jesuits if the spirit that animated him had been corporeally associated 
with the priestly function. But although a Loyola in administration he 
always descended, when matters of pleasure and recreation were in ques- 
tion, to the coarse and sometimes brutal strata of social excitement. A 
glove-fight, a main, a turn with the dice, or some other extravagance in 
gambling, had his preference. Anything forbidden, or at least dis- 
couraged, was his favorite resource ; and he found means of gratifying 
his disposition in many ways not commonly accessible. 

18 


274 


THE VEILED HAND 


Among the unusual expedients designed to appease that sort of crav- 
ing for excitement from which he suffered was the Mushroom Club, an 
invention of the present epoch, suggestive of ephemeral existence and of 
rapid growth ; and suggestive also of supper. The doors opened at ten 
at night, and closed at four in the morning, if those present could be got 
to leave, which was not always. Its members included the artists of the 
music-halls, and others who pretended to be so; and its premises con- 
sisted of a supper-room, a dancing-room, and a card-room. 

Delfoy was in the card-room. He bad made a bank at baccarat, and 
was the centre of an admiring crowd, who watched with admiration his 
coolness as he won and lost with varying success. 

The hour was early and the players few. As luck seemed to be with 
the bank, they dropped off, cursing themselves and Delfoy indifferently; 
and Delfoy was left to yawn and smoke and receive the congratulations 
of Mademoiselle Lacour, a lady from the Parthenon Music-hall, where 
she appeared in the character of Diana, and sang songs in the French 
language that it would have been indiscreet to translate. 

“Ah, my dear De la Foi,” said the lady, patting him on the cheek 
with her fan, “you have always the luck. You must stand me my 
supper, because I have wished you.” 

“And you are always my good angel, mademoiselle,” said he, lounging 
back in his chair. “ But you must wait till one o’clock.” 

Mademoiselle Lacour shrugged her ponderous shoulders and pouted. 

“What for should I wait? You are no longer agreeable, monsieur.” 

“ Necessity, my dear,” was the answer, “ which, in our blunt country, 
we say, knows no law.” . 

“ It is a beastly country,” said the lady, “ with beastly climate, beastly 
people, beastly managers.” 

“And beastly money,” interrupted Delfoy, with a cynical grin. “Come, 
mademoiselle, don’t be angry. Choose my supper for me, and let me, I 
implore you, attend to the interests of my country for half an hour in the 
House of Commons while you do it.” 

Mademoiselle Lacour signified her assent and her resignation with a 
sigh. Then, sitting down, she added, 

“You will play no more to-night.” Having said this, she thrust at 
him a sudden look of passion, and watched him. 

“ Why so ?” he asked, with nonchalance. 

“You have had the luck, but it is passed, and you can have no more 
of the luck to-night I know it,” she added, fiercely. 

“ Ah, my little Lacour,” said Delfoy, in a vein of gross flattery, for 
she was very large, “ you are always my protector. Make a nice supper, 
and we will see.” 

He left the card-room, gave some instructions to the waiter about the 
supper, which showed a want of confidence in his friend, took a cab at 


A ROUND OF THE CLOCK 


275 


the door, and drove not to the House of Commons but to the Erech- 
theurn, the newest and most fashionable restaurant available for select 
parties of two. 

Delfoy laughed aloud as he lay back in the cab and refreshed his 
memory by reading a telegram that he had received at the House of 
Commons from Bray. It was more laconic than was usual with Bray. 
It merely said, “Erechtheum room No. 8.” And Delfoy laughed again. 

His cab stopped in front of a dimly-lighted restaurant at the corner 
of a street abutting on Grantley Circus. His hilarity had disappeared. 
He seemed to be nervous and excited as he stepped from the cab;^and 
as he pulled some loose change from his pocket, some coins fell on the 
pavement. He stooped and picked up a couple of shillings, but a third 
had rolled into the gutter and escaped observation. 

“Got ’em, sir?” asked the cabman, in response to the expletive uttered 
by Delfoy as he groped on the pavement. 

“Yes, thank you,” he answered; and he handed the cabman double 
fare, merely because he was anxious, above all things, to prevent an alter- 
cation. 

“You’re a gentleman, sir,” said the cabman. “That’s the first real 
fare I’ve had to-day. Thank’ce, sir and he cracked his whip and drove 
out into the lighted circus, in hopes of more of the same kind. 

It was a long, low-fronted building, with lace curtains tightly stretched 
over the windows, after the Continental fashion, and it had a dull lamp 
over the doorway, on which was inscribed in quaint lettering, “ The 
Erechtheum.” Inside, everything was arranged in the best taste. Large 
supper-rooms were entered from the vestibule on either side, and in 
front of Delfoy was an Oriental portiere, through which he passed to a 
staircase beyond. He hurried up two stairs at a time, pushed aside a 
waiter on the landing, and made for No. 8. A waiter barred the closed 
door. 

Delfoy went apart and beckoned the waiter. Putting a sovereign into 
his hand, he pointed to the room, and said, 

“There’s a lady and gentleman in there?” 

The gold provoked truth, and the waiter said there was. 

Delfoy nodded approval, and said, 

“ It is necessary that I show myself to them ; but you may rely on me 
that there shall be no disturbance.” 

“ Perhaps you had better ask me to go and fetch something, sir,” said 
the man, with a leer. 

Delfoy suggested a brandy-and-soda, and then asked for the man’s 
address, in case he was afterwards wanted. The next moment Delfoy 
was in the room, and interrupted Mr. Marmaduke Bray reciting a passage 
from Byron’s “Cain,” of all compositions in the world, while Mrs. Delfoy 
lano-uished on a couch in a trance of unbounded admiration. 

o 


276 


THE VEILED HAND 


Delfoy’s appearance was followed by an access of emotion. His wife 
fainted on the threshold of a scream as Delfoy exclaimed, 

- “ What is this infamy ? And you ?” he added, turning to Bray. 

Bray rose, advanced, and folded his arms as he said, 

“ This is a private room, sir, and this lady is under my protection.” 

It was a lame affair — a miserable comedy enacted before an audience 
incapable of apprehension — a despicable manoeuvre that depended for 
success on the weakness and folly of the victim — and the victim had 
become unconscious. 

« The Hotel Farina 

Delfoy observed that the signal-light still burned in the clock-tower 
of the palace at Westminster, and being subject to a solemn promise to 
return and vote* in favor of a bill then under discussion, for the better 
protection of young women, and generally designed to secure an im- 
provement in the morals of the people, he made all haste to St. Stephen’s 
instead of at once returning to The Mushroom and Mademoiselle Lacour. 
He found a committee of professional moralists in the lobby, who re- 
ceived him with many congratulations on his zeal in the interests of the 
purity and well-being of the masses, and he responded with gratifying 
concern for the success of the measure then under discussion. 

All this was very agreeable to everybody concerned, and presented a 
highly garnished exterior to an admiring, although lethargic, British 
public. Delfoy left his companions in the pursuit of legislative purity, 
and was about entering the House, when he was seized by a smart little 
man with a large head and black whiskers, but otherwise shaven, and 
exhibiting in his countenance a firm mouth and a keen dark eye. Said 
he, without preface or any interest whatever in the subject under 
debate : 

“ Will you pair with me? I’ve a client inside under the gallery wait- 
ing for me to go away and do a little piece of business for him.” 

Delfoy took out his watch, saw it wanted twenty minutes to one, 
thought of his appointment, and adjourned with his friend to the whips 
to arrange the pair. Having completed the arrangement, Delfoy im- 
mediately left the House for The Mushroom and Mademoiselle Lacour. 
The next cab that left Palace Yard carried Morris Heritage and Delfoy’s 
pair to the Hotel Farina, in Soho, where a curious scene was being 
enacted between Mr. Mawll, of Madrid, and Bowdler, the great agitator. 

The appointment was for twelve o’clock, and up to that hour Bowdler 
had preserved an appearance of comparative ease. Shortly after mid- 
night, however, he showed signs of nervousness. He was smoking fierce- 
ly, and sat huddled in his chair, as was his manner when suffering from 
enforced inaction. Presently he said, hastily, 

“ He hasn’t come, you see.” 


A ROUND OF THE CLOCK 


277 


“No,” replied Newmans, calmly, “he has not come; but he will come.” 

“I don’t believe it,” said Bowdler, snappishly; “it’s all a plant — a 
dodge to upset me. Mark me, Newmans,” he added, fiercely, “if this 
leaks out. I’ll be down your track for life !” 

“ Be good enough to keep quiet, and be good enough also to remem- 
ber that my name is Mawll,” was the firm rejoinder. 

There w’as silence for a few minutes. Then Bowdler put down his 
pipe and walked the room. Suddenly stopping, he said : 

“Look’ee here, Newmans, or Mawll, or anything you like. I’ve been 
led into this by yow.” 

He spoke loudly, and approached Newmans in a threatening manner 
as he said it. He assumed, after the manner of his kind, that he was 
being played false, and he wanted to justify himself to himself, and to 
discover some way of escape from the net in which he believed himself 
to be entangled. 

“You understand now,” he continued. “I’m not committed to noth- 
ing, and I’ve promised nothing, and I’m going right on with this strike, 
and I’m determined my men shall have their rights.” 

As Bowdler made this declaration that he was not committed, New- 
mans quietly put his open hand upon the written undertaking lying on 
the table, which still wanted the amount of the bill and the name of the 
bankers, and, above all, the signature of Bowdler. As the declaration 
had culminated in the reversal of everything that had before been prom- 
ised and agreed to, Newmans took up the paper, and, holding it in both 
hands, as with the intention of tearing it, he said, coldly : 

“ You are, as you say, uncommitted. Shall we put an end to the 
business by tearing up this paper and leaving word down-stairs that Mr. 
Bowdler is in the north ?” 

Bowdler hitched himself round, took up his pipe, muttered something 
about “ twenty thousand quid,” and said, as he lighted his pipe, 

“ Perhaps we had better w’ait a while.” 

He smoked for fully five minutes, when the fever of doubt began to 
reassert itself. He had put his pipe down, and had uplifted his right 
hand as he sat, with thunder and avalanches gathering in his counte- 
nance, when the door opened, and it was announced that a gentleman 
wished to see Mr. Mawll. 

“Shut that door and get out!” shouted Bowdler; and when the waiter 
had shut himself out on the landing, Bowdler collected his thoughts and 
said, calmly : 

“ He’s come, and, look’ee here, I shall leave him to you. I’ll go into 
your bedroom and I’ll hear what he says, and when it’s all square you 
can come in to me to sign.” 

Newmans blinked and smiled, but made no reply, on which Bowdler 
added, 


278 


THE VEILED HAND 


“You see, if he was to come any of his hankey -pankey with me, 
upon my soul I couldn’t contain myself.” 

Newmans merely nodded, as if to say it would be better he should be 
out of the way, and gave the word to show the gentleman up, while 
Bowdler slipped into the bedroom and left the door ajar. 

Mr. Larcher, who had left the House of Commons with Morris Heri- 
tage in the track of Delfoy, was what is known as “ a rising” City solic- 
itor, a description usually applied to those who have achieved a reputa- 
tion and have become independent of encomium. He was versed in 
commerce, and Heritage had deemed it prudent to take his friend with 
him in this perilous path he was pursuing, and to have him within call 
during the interview, in case some new point should arise not hitherto 
disclosed. Larcher, however, waited in the cab, while Heritage entered 
the Hotel Farina alone. 

Newmans responded to his look of inquiry by telling him that Bow- 
dler was in the building, but that he deemed it prudent to let the busi- 
ness be conducted as heretofore by Newmans. 

Heritage made no reply, but produced a bill accepted by Robez, the 
wealthiest banker in Christendom, for £30,000. 

“ Good,” said Newmans; “nothing could be better.” 

In his old-fashioned, methodical way he sat down and filled up the 
banker’s name and the amount of Ihe bill on the letter lying on the 
table, and as he had filled it up, it ran : 

“Sir, — As regards a bill for the sum of £30,000 (thirty thousand 
pounds) drawn by me at thirty days’ date, and accepted by Messrs. Robez 
& Co., I acknowledge that this acceptance will not be recoverable by 
me, or by any one to whom it may be transferred, unless the strike in 
the iron-smelting trade and the coal trade now existing ceases through- 
out the United Kingdom within fourteen days from this date; and in 
the event of the strike not so ceasing, I undertake to return the bill 
within twenty-one days from this date, or twelve days before the due 
date.” 

While Newmans was engaged in writing. Heritage had come to a con- 
clusion, and when he had read the document, he said, 

“ Now, you had better send for Mr. Bowdler.” 

“ I wjjl procure his signature,” said Newmans. 

“ No,” said Heritage, “that will not do. Mr. Bowdler must sign here, 
and we must see him sign both the document and the bill. 1 have a 
friend down-stairs who will join us when he is ready.” 

Newmans looked down and hesitated, upon which Heritage con- 
tinued: 

“You will observe, Mr. Mawll, that in the event of a difficulty — say 
the death of Mr. Bowdler — it might be said he never signed this paper.” 


A ROUND OF THE CLOCK 


279 


“Who doubts John Bowdler?” said the owner of that name, bursting 
into the room. 

“ No one,” said Heritage, bowing, with a smile. “ No one, Mr. Bow- 
dler. In a business transaction business precautions are necessary. 
May I send for my friend?” 

“ Who is your friend ?” asked Bowdler, who, having the bodily pres- 
ence of Heritage before him, and having seen the documents on the 
table, and being in possession of what had occurred, was now as bold as 
any bully of any age or country. 

“ Probably you know him — Mr. Larcher, a member.” 

“ Let me think,” said Bowdler. 

Bowdler looked about anxiously and breathed heavily as he thought. 
His lips twitched and his shoulders worked. He could not have been 
more disturbed if he had contemplated entering upon a trial by ordeal, 
and that an ordeal of fire. Finally hjs eye rested on the piece of blue 
paper with the red bill stamp upon it, and he shouted, as he might have 
shouted upon dashing into the fire, 

“ Send for your friend. I’ll chance it.” 

Mr. Larcher appeared, the papers were signed without a word of com- 
ment, and the two visitors withdrew. 

As they left the room, Bowdler sank into a chair with an exclamation 
of surprise, and — 

“ My God, thirty thousand, and you take ten of it !” 

Mr. Newmans smiled. 

“ Yes,” said he, pointing to the bill still lying on the table; “ there it 
is, and now you’ve got to earn it.” 

“ For you ? No, by G — !” and the blasphemous rogue of an agitator 
put out his hand to take it. 

“No,” said Newmans. “We must proceed regularly. This docu- 
ment,” still pointing at it, “needs your indorsement. If you take 
it and indorse it you can get money on the name of Robez, which 
it bears. This must not be done, on account of the undertaking you 
have given to our friend. No banker would give you money on it 
if you disclosed that document our friend has taken away, and if 
you obtained money on it without disclosing the document you would 
be on the road to penal servitude. I must preserve you from 
that.” 

Bowdler scowled at his friend. His hard, cold manner and his pre- 
cise language annoyed him. 

“ There, get on !” he exclaimed. 

“ If I hold that document,” continued Newmans, again pointing at it, 
“ I cannot use it without your signature, and therefore I submit that I 
am the proper person to hold it in our mutual interest until your signa- 
ture is needed.” 


280 


THE VEILED HAND 


The mechanical completeness of Newmans’s arrangement was a sore 
trial to the temper of his friend, and he asked, petulantly, 

“ And what next ?” 

“ And next we have to stop the strike,” said Newmans. 

The result of the conference upon this delicate point was the intro- 
duction of a doctor of uncertain status in the profession, and the removal 
of the great agitator in a cab from the Hotel Farina, in the Soho, to the 
Caledonian Hotel, in the Adelphi. He had his right leg bandaged in 
splints, and he was carried from the four-wheel cab to his bedroom under 
the superintendence of the doctor. So attended, he telegraphed for his 
myrmidons on the field of action, and, under the guidance of Newmans, 
withdrew his forces and raised the siege without once communicating 
with Delfoy and making known his whereabouts or what he was doing. 

The only person who remarked that there was anything extraordinary 
in these proceedings was the cabman, who, in the course of the confidences 
of the cab rank, said : 

“ It was a rummy go. A gent walks into my cab at one hotel with 
his leg bandaged, gets wuss on the road, and is regular carried into the 
other hotel as if he was a bloomin’ infant.” 

But, as the cabman observed, he was not a private inquiry agent, and 
it was no business of his. 

Joy on Differences 

“ Now, I ask you, Mrs. Joy — you, sittin’ at one end of the table and 
me at the other, with the entire family around, and ’Arriet with her eye 
on Gertrude Soul Joy in the cradle in the corner — I ask you, Mrs. Joy, 
whether you consider me a person likely to sit still when I see anybody 
disposed to best me? Am I a likely one, Mrs. Joy, to sit quiescent like 
from a Monday mornin’ to a Saturday night while I see men from the 
City, or what not, puttin’ their ’ands right down into the very bottom of 
my pocket and takin’ out the golden sovereigns that I have earned for 
the good keepin’ of my wife and family, sittin’ ’ere around at this very 
minute to partake of the finest leg of boiled pork and parsnips as was 
ever growed on a dairy-farm — now, I ask you, Mrs. Joy ?” 

Mrs. Joy, who was a very small, fair woman with weak eyes, answered, 
meekly, 

“ No, Matthew, you are not.” 

“ Ah, I thought you’d say that. That’s exactly what a woman would 
say, sitting around with her family before a fine leg of boiled dairy-fed 
pork, with parsnips and pease-pudding.” 

Saying this, he passed the knife to the bone, with a look at Alfred 
Light Joy, the embryo butcher, to see that he was observing, with a view 
to proficiency in his trade. 

“ But, you see,” he continued, as he sliced away, “ I am that person, 


A ROUND OF THE CLOCK 


281 


Mrs. Joy — I am that very person; and the golden sovereigns have been 
extracted from the very bottom of my pocket, and are being extracted 
at this very minute, strange as it may seem. ’Arriet, serve the pease- 
pnddin’, and ’elp yourself to stout. That’s a new tap, and finer brown 
stout never was brewed in the memory of man ; but I want to know 
whether I’m a person likely, as a rule and in a general way, to feel faint 
at cornin’ upon a man sudden in the street, and to have palpitations, 
and be short in the wind, and — ” 

“Father, what is palpitations?” asked Benjamin Air Joy, with his 
mouth full of pork and pease-pudding, 
j “ Don’t interrupt your father,” said Harriet, who was responsible for 
; the manners of the rising generation, and liked to hear her brother 
talk. 

“Yes, ’Arriet,” retorted Joy, “he must interrupt his father when his 
father’s on his own subject. Benjamin Air Joy has a right to informa- 
tion on palpitations and shortness of wind, and he shall have it. Chalk 
it up, ’Arriet, and get it for him, and take another parsnip. Mrs. Joy, a 
' glass of stout, and pass the jug.” 

The jug was passed, and Joy filled a pint pewter pot with the new tap 
and took a deep draught before beginning on the boiled pork, during 
I which process there was silence; but not for long. 

I “ Mrs. Joy,” said he, sometimes boldly and defiantly, and sometimes 
I in conflict with pork and parsnips and pease-pudding — “ Mrs. Joy, I ask 
I you: am I disposed and likely to go off in a faint from want of courage 
7 and a fear of my fellow-man, when suddenly come upon — now I ask 
I you ?” 

1 “ No, Matthew, I think not,” said Mrs. Joy, with a sigh, 

j “ No, Mrs. Joy, you say ‘ no ;’ and yet this very day,” pursued the 
) pork-butcher, with energy, “ I’ve been run into by friend Vickers so sud- 
den as you might have knocked me down with a feather ;” and he wield- 
ed his knife in the air as if it had been a roystering feather playing havoc 
with a pork-butcher. 

“ And talk of the — Friend Vickers, here you are !” shouted Joy, as 
the portly figure of Mr. Vickers appeared at the doorway, holding his 
hat in his hand, and wiping his brow with a red silk handkerchief, for it 
was July, be it remembered, and very hot. 

“ Yes, Joy, I said I’d come,” said Vickers, gradually getting his breath, 
which had been expended on a hasty ascent of thirty-six steep steps ; for 
the domestic arrangements of the Joy family were carried on at the top 
of the range of buildings in which the purveying businesses were con- 
ducted below. 

“ Yes, you said you’d come, friend Vickers, and come you have,” said 
Joy. “ Now, ’Arriet, a knife and fork for friend Vickers, and another 
pint-pot.” 


282 


THE VEILED HAND 


Then he repeated his praises of the dairy-fed pork, specially selected 
for home consumption, and not to be surpassed in the whole world. 

“ Why, friend Vickers/’ he exclaimed, as fiercely as if his complacent 
friend had contradicted him a hundred times, “ the fat on that leg of 
pork — dairy-fed, mind yer — is like Devonshire cream — like Devonshire 
cream !” he shouted, with such vehemence that his guest began to consider 
whether he had not, in a moment of forgetfulness, expressed a doubt about 
the pork. But he had no time to complete his mental inquiry, for the 
pork-butcher was informing him in stentorian tones that Mrs. Joy was of 
opinion, openly expressed in the midst of her family, that he was not a 
man likely to be robbed with impunity, or to be intimidated into taking 
a course not commended by his judgment; and then, branching off by 
a circuitous route from this general declaration, he wanted to know why 
Great Coradells had gone up to 50 per cent, premium after he had sold, 
and why he should be robbed of that 50 per cent, after he had endured 
all the agonizing throes of a possible loss of every penny he had invested 
in the enterprise. 

“ Now, mark me,” he shouted at his friend, who was sitting next him, 
but who could have heard him quite easily at the other end of a three- 
acre field, “ I consider 1 ought to have that 50 per cent, rise out of some- 
body, and I want to know who that somebody is !” 

“Ah,” said Vickers, who by this time was busy with the dairy -fed 
pork, “ you missed your chance ; but you can get it all back and more 
by a little deal in pig-iron, as I told you this morning.” 

“’Old!” shouted the pork-butcher, with his knife and fork in the air. 
“ ’Old, I say I Edmund Iron Joy, do yer hear your subject referred to ? 
Stand up and hear your subject, and ask questions of the gentleman who 
has referred to your subject. Go on, friend Vickers; Edmund Iron Joy 
is at attention — go on.” 

Edmund Iron Joy, who had just turned four, had been busy making a 
clean plate, seated in a high-chair; and, in accordance with the rules of 
the Joy method of instruction, he rose up and balanced himself on the 
narrow ledge in front of the high-chair, and looked straight before him 
at the opposite wall, as if he were engaged in executing a conjuring feat 
on the tight-rope ; but Mr. Vickers remarked that his countenance was 
stern, and that he maintained the dignity of the Joy family to admiration. 

“ Now, mark me,” said the head of the family ; “ I see how it is — I 
know what’s in ’is mind. He’s young as yet, friend Vickers, but what 
he wants to know is, why pig-iron ? Iron he knows, and pigs he knows, 
but pig-iron he doesn’t know ; and what I see in the eye of Edmund 
Iron Joy at this moment is, ‘Why pig?’ Is that so, Edmund Iron Joy?” 

“Yes, father,” said the youthful acrobat, who, whatever else he was 
backward in, had learned obedience. “Yes, father; why pig?” 

The father surveyed the company in triumph ; and observing a dispo- 


A ROUND OF THE CLOCK 


283 


sition to rise on the part of the youthful Joy whose business in life was 
designed to centre in pork, he quickly suppressed him by declaring that 
the subject of “pig” as commonly understood had not arisen, but only 
“pig-iron;” and then proceeded to reflect on the ignorance of friend 
Vickers on a subject of universal knowledge by pointing out to him, in 
tones that would have reached him if he had still been on the other side 
of that three-acre field, that a humorist among the iron-founders had des- 
ignated the big pieces “sows” and the little pieces “pigs.” 

“ And for why ?” he shouted to the assembly, so suddenly as to make 
JEdmund Iron Joy start and nearly lose his balance. “ ’Cause, as they lay 
in the sand, the big pigs and the little pigs look like the little pigs as is 
coming up to be dairy-fed pork, a-lying along taking nourishment from 
their mother afore they’re weaned. Sit down, Edmund Iron Joy, and 
think of more questions on your subject for puttin’ to your Aunt ’Arriet 
this afternoon. Friend Vickers, go on.” 

Friend Vickers was so far disconcerted by the energy of the pork- 
butcher in carrying out his system of education that his accustomed volu- 
bility had quite deserted him ; but he ventured, on this appeal, mildly to 
suggest that if Mr. Joy desired to make money he should buy pig-iron on 
the rising market, and confided to him that the market was going up day 
by day, and that enormous purchases had been made that very morning 
in consequence of the scarcity arising through the strike. The sugges- 
tion awakened in the mind of the pork-butcher a profound indignation, 
and he commenced, in solemn tones : 

“•Now, I ask you, friend Vickers, in the presence of Mrs. Joy and the 
family, what do I want with pig-iron ? What could I do with it ? where 
am I to stack it ? Can I eat it ? can I drink it ? can I even make horse- 
shoes of it for my horses? I can do none of these things with pig-iron. 
Then why, friend Vickers, should I buy pig-iron ? Have another drop 
of stout, friend Vickers, and improve upon your last observations.” 

He suited the action to the word, and helped himself at the same 
time. 

“ Perhaps you’d like to sell ?” suggested Vickers. 

“ Sell !” screamed Joy. “ Sell, friend Vickers ? Why should I sell ? 
what should I sell ? I have no pig-iron. I don’t make pig-iron. I’m 
not a iron-founder. I’m not a iron-merchant. I ain’t even a marine-store 
dealer. How can I sell pig-iron which I haven’t got it ?” 

Friend Vickers was on the point of becoming unfriendly in his con- 
tempt at the ignorance of his host. 

“ You can sell easily enough without having it,” he said. “ Go on the 
market, work the ups and downs of the market^ and take your differ- 
ences.” 

“ I’ve heard of such things,” said Joy, solemnly, “ but such things is 
not for Matthew Joy. Now, mark me, all of yer, and especially Mrs. 


284 


THE VEILED HAND 


Joy, at the other end of the table, and with the family around, exceptin’ 
Fanny Mind Joy, in the nursery with Matilda Ann — I suppose she’s had 
her potatoes and gravy as usual, and I see Gertrude Soul Joy sleeping 
peaceful in the corner — mark me : The day, Mrs. Joy, as I goes on the 
market — the iron market, or the wool market, or the share market, or 
the pepper and mustard market, or any other market — and watches the 
ups and downs of the market, and sells what I haven’t got, and buys 
what I don’t want and can’t use in all the purveying businesses as is car- 
ried on under the name of Joy — on that day, Mrs. Joy, and all around, 
discard me as a liar and as an impostor, and as a man unworthy to be a 
husband and a father, and a bringer-up of youth and innocence to a 
knowledge of natural history and the trades they’ve got to carry on, and 
hand me over to the school-board and the Marylebone Police-court and 
the mussy of the head-inspector.” 

The Pocket Borough 

The flags and banners were flying in the Parliamentary Borough of 
Gilton on election-day, and the polling was being conducted with all the 
customary vigor and all the usual accompaniments. It was high noon, 
and the British workman was exciting himself with a combination of 
three X ale and politics. He had become argumentative and loquacious 
and aggressive in proportion as he imbibed beer and converted it into in- 
coherencies. The prudent shopkeeper was putting his shutters up, in 
view of the argumentative brick-bats that wpuld begin flying about with- 
out apparent cause in the course of the afternoon and evening, by way 
of demonstrating that the elector was free and independent, and the 
parish beadle was chaining up the pump for fear any opinionated por- 
tion of the community might think cold water a convincing argument. 
Things had not arrived at the acute stage at one o’clock, but "a growing 
disposition to make positive assertion was observable among the men at 
street corners and in front of public-houses, without regard to reason or 
fact, and this also may be put down as a way the average elector has of 
asserting his freedom and independence. 

The Golden Lion was the popular place of resort of the Heritage fac- 
tion. It was the old-established house, and nobody in Gilton would feel - 
that the fundamental principles of the constitution could remain stable j 
for another day if the Golden Lion had not declared in favor of the Heri- • 
tage interest, which was also the Bolore interest, and the interest of the 
Lady Alice, the popular, daring, and resolute champion of Gilton insti- i 
tutions. Even the opponents of the Heritage faction, which had inher- j 
ited the interests of the Foolcher faction, would have felt uneasy if the 
Golden Lion had renounced its allegiance and declared itself neutral; 
and whatever the wire-pullers might have said, the opposing faction 
could never have been brought to rejoice over so rank a thing as turpi- 


A ROUND OF THE CLOCK 


285 


tude on the part of the Golden Lion. And at the door of the Golden 
Lion, or rather on the foot-path outside the stables of the Golden Lion, 
the supporters of the principles of the Heritage-Foolcher-Bolore interest 
assembled from time to time to seek that encouragement numbers always 
afford, especially when the brotherhood is founded upon a predilection 
for strong ale and vigorous declaration. 

The iron-founders’ strike in the north had become a prominent bone 
of contention in the course of the election, chiefly because it had noth- 
ing to do with the district, for it has been observed by students of po- 
litical movements that the less any given body of electors know about or 
are concerned in a subject the more excited do they get about it, and the 
more determined are they to have the matter in question settled out of 
hand, and only in their way. As Gilton was essentially an agricultural 
district, it was only natural it should be desperately anxious about the 
coal and iron industries of the north ; and as Mr. Pardon, who was the 
candidate opposed to the Bolore interest, was a friend of Bowdler’s, and 
*a terrible fellow for denouncing everybody who had anything to lose or 
to be appropriated, the strike had become the great feature of the elec- 
tion, and was the general topic of all curb-stone conversation. 

There was not perfect unanimity outside the gateway of the Golden 
Lion. There was one man among them who had a grievance against the 
social economy of the State. He stood with his hands in his troufeers-pockets 
and his head bent forward in sullen discontent. His trousers were cordu- 
roy and his coat a dirty light-colored tweed, and he wore a misshapen 
hat. He was a bricklayer ; there was lime about him, and his red hair 
and whiskers had dust in the'm. He was saying, “ They ain’t no right 
to have carriages and big houses while we have no carriages and little 
houses, with nothing in ’em to speak of,” and as he said it his left leg 
was agitated with a nervous tremor. This movement seemed to have 
something to do with the production of the idea, for it always accom- 
panied the sullen emphasis ^of his criticism. The others listened, but 
said nothing. Those who were smoking pipes went on smoking, and 
one elderly man, who had put on new clothes for the day, of most sur- 
prising newness about the neck and the cuffs, looked at the dissatisfled 
man and grinned. 

“ What are you thinking of, George ?” asked one of the smokers, a 
stout young countryman with a jolly face and a lively twinkle in his 
eye. 

“ Why, I was a-thinking, Samuel,” said George, “ that it would be a 
bad thing for the carriage-building trade if nobody was allowed to ride 
in a carriage, and a bad thing for Joe here if there was no big houses to 
build.” 

With this George laughed immoderately, in enjoyment of his own wit; 
but Joe the bricklayer merely grunted. 


286 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ Why should they have it all, and not us?” 

“ ’Cause they’ve got it,” said George, and he laughed again. 

“ Ah,” said Joe, glaring at the middle of the roadway in his sullen dis- 
temper, “ they won’t have it long. The colliers are beginning up north 
to teach ’em something, for all this ’ere young Heritage says — the young 
upstart !” 

“ Well, come now, Joe,” said the countryman, who had a fancy for 
fanning flame, “what do you think of this strike business?” 

“ I don’t think nothing at all about it. I know,'' said the bricklayer. 
“I know,” he repeated, and shook his head with uncommon confidence 
in his prescience. 

“ What do you know ?” asked George. 

“ Why, we’ll have ’em under our heels in a twelvemonth.” 

“ That’s what you know, Joe,” said George, “ is it ? Well, I know 
somethin’ too, and what I know is that every man as is out of ’is job 
will lose a £5 note afore he gets to work again, even if he gets to work 
to-morrow’s mornin’, and no amount of swearing at ’is job will get that 
£5 back agin. Time’s money all the world over, and you can’t strike 
feedin’.” 

“ Ah,” said Joe, with contempt, “ you ain’t in no Union, I see. You’re 
one of the self-seekers.” 

“Right!” shouted George. “I’m a self-seeker, and I looks after my- 
self to rights. But you’re mistaken about my not being in a Union, my 
man. I am in a Union — a Union of my own. Me and my missis and the 
kids is my Union, and we don’t have no bullying in my Union.” 

With this George, who was a small man, and whose new clothes were 
much too large for him, put his hands in his pockets as deeply as the 
cuffs of his jacket would let him and shook his head from side to side, 
expressive of his determination to stand by his Union. This was quite 
an agreeable sally for the amusement of the countrymen, but the contin- 
uance of the dispute was made impossible by the approach of a carriage 
and pair that dashed up to the Golden Lion in great style, bearing the 
Lady Alice and Dora, dressed in purple and white, on the back seat, and 
the candidate and Mr.Foolcher, wearing purple rosettes, the party color, 
and purple ties and purple gloves. It seemed as if the foundation of the 
British Empire was in some mysterious way dependent upon the dyeing 
establishments of the country, for everybody on the other side was steeped 
in yellow to the eyebrows, as a protest against purple. 

The quartet made a great affair of getting out of the carriage, for, 
although Mr. Foolcher was much better in health and more free in the 
limb than when we last saw him, he did not object to assistance, and 
they all went into the Golden Lion with a great show of business, but 
which did not appear to amount to more than a desire on their part to 
shake hands with everybody, and everybody, agreeably responsive, seemed 


A ROUND OF THE CLOCK 


287 


anxious to shake hands with them — always excepting Joe the bricklayer, 
who preserved an appearance of stoical contempt. So the party re-en- 
tered the carriage, having done nothing but shake hands, and the people 
. round the Golden Lion cheered as they drove away, looking very hot and 
fagged with hand-shaking, and intensely earnest, especially in the matter 
of smiles. 

And all this time, looking down from an upper window, was a newly- 
I arrived traveller,’ having no connection with the town, but much interested 
f in all that was going on and in all that was being said by Joe the brick- 
i layer and George of the Domestic Union, who had come out in the new 
■ clothes for the honor of the polling day. It was Morris Heritage, who had 
taken it into his head that, although everything looked very promising, as 
' it always does at elections, and while the figures added up, as they al ways do, 
with totals showing a triumphant majority, yet he had imagined a reverse 
to be possible, and he had concluded that a reverse would be a terrible 
; blow to Philip, and that a little moral support would not be a bad thing 
in such an event. It was accordingly in his mind to wait till the poll was 

I counted, and if things went the wrong way, to declare himself; but if 
things were well, to go away home again as if he had never been on the 
ground at all, being fully assured that no assistance would be needed in 
an hour of triumph. 

And it was an hour of triumph. The church-bells and the town-bells 
! were rung, and the brass-band marched through the town at the head of 
i a torch-light procession, and the Lady Alice’s carriage, with the new mem- 
l ber and the old member in it, was drawn through the town by the tri- 

! j umphant purples, and even the countess was reconciled by that invulner- 
I able jiistifier of all actions — success. There was no need of Morris 
jl Heritage. 

L .Of course, Morris Heritage could not resist joining in the congratula- 
tions; but he went off by the late train, and having parted from the 
railway at a convenient station, he posted fourteen miles in the middle 
of the night that the triumph should be known by Muriel before he 
slept. 

Bramley Down 

It comes to all men, sooner or later in their lives, to desire repose. 
Some fight for it, strive for it, hope for it, stretch forth their hands for 
it, and never grasp it. Some even can take it by stretching forth their 
hands and never put them forth, because an inclination, an ambition, a 
passion bids them continue in the whirlwind of engrossing life, and they 
Jive — striving with the whirlwind — till the nerves snap and the life goes. 

The fearful night spent by Heritage and Muriel, when wrestling with the 
wretched past, had caused Heritage to resolve, among other things, to 
I get repose — at least for Muriel, if not for himself. They had never much 


288 


THE VEILED HAND 


concerned themselves with the doings of that wild conglomerate of rest- 
less beings that calls itself “Society,” with those miserable travesties of 
conversazione of the cultured called “At Homes,” with that strange passion 
for being everywhere and doing everything only because everybody else, 
who wishes to be considered somebody, is desirous of being seen in places 
that have no interest for them, and in doing things for which they have 
no aptitude, and which they would never attempt but for the belief that 
if they did not attempt them they would bo lost souls, 'wandering in the 
purgatory of obscurity. Morris Heritage, with his wealth, would have 
been a figure in the maddened circle; but ho happened to be endowed 
with a nature that repelled the pretentious herd of money-spenders, who 
gilded their gingerbread and postured, but said nothing and did nothing 
but gape and utter inanities and look foolish in their folly. To walk in 
that circle and bo paragraphed by the editor of The Frivol was no delight 
to him, but rather the reverse; and now in the prime of life the notion 
of repose had charms for him irresistible, and this being so, he bought 
Bramley Down for Muriel. 

It was a grand place. The “ down ” was a long stretch of short springy 
turf by the road-side, stretching for two miles on the flat, and rising on 
one side some 600 feet, with varying undulations, and about two miles 
from the main road was the house, a castellated structure called “ The 
Lodge,” of no period and no character other than it own ; but pictu- 
resque with its ivy and its creepers, its walled gardens and its acres of 
stabling, and its mossy walls and ancient trees, full of rooks, who are 
quick to learn where they are safe. 

Down in the hollow was a village, where simple life was lived in small, 
lattice-windowed, red-brick houses, covered all over with creepers, and each 
with its little garden in front, that enriched the scene with color and the 
air with perfume, and so smiled on the cottager day by day for thanks 
as ho tended it. 

And near the village was the church, with a pathway through the 
burial-ground and a turnstile to keep the cattle out, and a parsonage 
with a white-haired incumbent, all gentleness and purity of thought, who 
by his ministrations made the locks and bolts of the police-station rusty 
and as useless as the moss-grown stocks preserved up the lane as a mem- 
orial of old times — still with the rusty padlock on the hasp, and all grown 
around with nettles, as if the seeds of iniquity had fallen from those 
who had been placed in them and had grown up to symbolize the stings 
it had inflicted. 

A happy combination of circumstances had placed this eminently out- 
of-the-world place at the disposal of Heritage, and he bought it outright, 
in the course of an afternoon’s inspection of it, just as it stood ; accepted 
the obligation of continuing every servant in the house and on the estate 
just as he found them ; and entered into possession within a week, as if 


A ROUND OF THE CLOCK . 


289 


he had been taking a furnished house for a month or two. So, as the 
world of fashion hurried on in its fervid course, and Society distressed it- 
self with the fears and hopes that harass its poor brains, Muriel found 
peace and quiet at Bramley Down with Ethel, while Dora took the path 
of war with the Lady Alice and Philip, and revelled in the triumphant 
crusade among the yellows of the pocket borough. 

It was a late breakfast at The Lodge next morning, and a comfortable 
sensation of contentment and rest pervaded the sober three, who found 
Bramley Down so very much to their minds. No doubt they were all 
thinking of Philip in his triumph ; and now and then a word or two 
escaped them as they sat or walked, and they would each read the pa- 
pers — all the papers, though they were all alike — just to see whether 
they differed ; and the sun shone and the birds sang and the rooks 
cawed and the cattle basked in the meadow as the peaceful morning 
grew, and they were happy in their loves. 

Then a walk through the estate, and a kindly talk with its quaint peo- 
ple, who had scarce ever lifted foot beyond the county in which they 
had been born, and out through the village to the school-house ; and 
after transacting a little business at the post-office, they would drive to 
the neighboring town and lunch at The Crown and Mitre, quite out of 
the world, where the first business of mankind was dry fly-fishing and 
passing interest in South-Down mutton. 

The sedate trio were a little disturbed, and withal somewhat amused, 
during their lunch by the arrival of a dashing couple, who had also driven 
to the town and proposed to lunch. They consisted principally of a suit 
of very large shepherd’s plaid upon a somewhat portly person known as 
Lascelles Shout, proprietor of the “ Great Caesar Borgia Company ” — the 
greatest metropolitan success of the century — and Mrs. Shout, nee Laura 
Vickers, in a Duchess of Devonshire hat and feathers, and a costume of 
blue serge covered with dust. Mr. Shout was loud-voiced, boisterous, 
and imperious in his commands, particularly on the subject of wines. 
He condemned everything on the card, but ultimately put up with 
Roederer, and began with a brandy-and-soda. 

Being in a desperate hurry, in consequence of a business appointment 
in the town where they “ opened ” in the following week, and having 
to return in time for the evening performance at Chedbury, whence they 
had driven, they accepted the joint of the house, and fell to with vigor. 
Being apparently possessed with a desire to leave no one in ignorance of 
their identity or their occupation, they discussed their affairs in a loud 
voice, maintained a running commentary on their immediate surround- 
ings, and to(yk the waiter into their confidence as regards the prospects 
in the town they proposed to honor and instruct, by holding up the 
glass to nature in good Caesar Borgia fashion. But suddenly, in the 
verv middle of a remark of no consequence, but us loud us the vest of 

“l9 


290 


THE VEILED HAND 


the conversation, Mr. Shout stopped dead, dropped his knife and fork, 
uttered an exclamation of the most horrible import, and drank a tumbler 
of champagne with a shudder. 

“ What’s up now ?” inquired his energetic spouse, and turned for ex- 
planation to the party in the other corner of the room, where she had 
seen her husband’s eyes fixed as if in a trance. She found no expla- 
nation there, and looked at her silent and trembling husband with an 
equally barren result; for Shout’s eyes remained fastened on the placid 
face of Muriel, and visions of an iron church in an improving neighbor- 
hood burst upon his brain, with a cabman and a care-taker drinking 
whiskey-and-water in honor of a bride. 

“ Now, look here. Shout,” she said, solemnly, “ you’ve got ’em again, 
and I won’t stand it. Just you hand that bottle over here, and stow 
drinks for the rest of this tour.” 

“ All right, my dear,” said Shout, eagerly, “ take the bottle. I’m going 
out to look after the horse.” 


Chapter XLIV 
THE LORD OF LUCKROSS 

Mr. Geoffre? Delfoy, M.P., was happy in the reflection that things 
were moving aright. The iron-workers’ strike had assumed gigantic pro- 
portions, and prices had advanced to his entire satisfaction. He was cal- 
culating, in the quiet of the Albany, that another fortnight of this work 
would make it advisable for him to sell, take his profit, and let the strikers 
manage their own affairs without his assistance. He calculated that by 
this scheme he would be the gainer by a million, and the only regret he 
had at this remarkable epoch of his career was that he had no one by 
him to whom he could talk about it. He had not yet heard of Bow- 
dler’s accidenf, but had received a certified demand for a contribution 
of £12,000, which he had paid in gleeful anticipation of recovering it 
tenfold. 

It was natural, in these circumstances, that Delfoy should turn his at- 
tention to other schemes, and he reflected that it was his duty to visit 
Luckross and prepare the way for future triumphs. He concluded that 
it would be proper for the parishioners to receive him with acclamation, 
and that the quiet of Luckross should be disturbed by a demonstration. 
He doubted, however, whether material existed in Luckross to achieve 
this result, so necessary from a public point of view, and it consequently 
became incumbent upon him to import the requisite enthusiasm. 

We therefore find Geoffrey Delfoy, M.P., in his dressing-gown and 
slippers, reading his Times and taking his breakfast in the Albany, and 
grinning consumedly over the speech of Philip Heritage upon returning 
thanks to his constituents, when Dubley brought in a telegram and an- 
nounced the arrival of an expected visitor — Mr. Holyery, the eminent 
contractor. 

The telegram announced that pig-iron had risen 2g?. on the open- 
ing of the market, and that Lohman & Last had bought a thousand tons 
and sold five hundred at a fractional rise, according to order. Delfoy 
wrote a telegram in reply, ordering his brokers to sell sparingly at the 
higher price, but otherwise to remain inactive. He wanted to see what 
the market did without his interference — a resolution that gave Messrs. 
Lohman & Last much anxious thought during the day. Delfoy also ex- 
perienced a passing anxiety between the despatch of this telegram and 
the appearance of Mr. Holvery, 


292 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ Where’s Bowdler ?” said he to himself. “ I haven’t heard from him 
for three days. He’s pretty hard at it, I fancy.” 

Having reached this consoling reflection, he renewed his study of the 
Times, and in a few minutes Mr. Holvery was announced — a fair, thin 
man, with a bald head, a slight stoop, and a restless manner, a low, sweet, 
insinuating voice, and a deep-set eye that sparkled. The eye and the 
voice had led him through the world, and, thus heralded, obstacles to 
his progress seemed to wither at the touch of his delicate, thin hand, that 
could grip, notwithstanding its fragile appearance^ like an instrument of 
steel. 

Mr. Holvery was not an ordinary contractor. He did not make rail- 
ways and build bridges and feed armies. He contracted in the more 
subtle if more humble departments of human affairs. He dealt particu- 
larly in the comforting associations of man’s existence ; and it was com- 
monly reported that he had several contracts on hand, by which he had 
undertaken to. see certain persons through life, from the cradle to the 
grave — to feed them from infancy to old age, to clothe them, educate 
them, provide them with pocket-money, on a sliding scale consistent 
with the period of life at which they had arrived, and to bury them on 
their decease. It was not, of course, anticipated that Mr. Holvery would 
remain alive personally to conduct his clients to their respective graves, 
but his powers of administration had been equal to providing deputies, 
in the shape of enduring corporations, to complete the contract, on the 
natural assumption that the infant subjects of the contracts would out- 
live him. Nobody doubted Holvery’s capacity, and everybody envied 
the happy condition of those he was conducting through life, seeing 
that he was bound to keep them going, and that their circumstances 
prevented them ever getting into debt or contracting liabilities on their 
own account. 

Mr. Holvery also contracted to supply enthusiasm in any part of the 
United Kingdom upon twenty-four hours’ notice, and of every variety — 
political, social, municipal, domestic, imperial, or local, and in any form. 
Geoffrey Delfoy, M.P., besought his assistance in this respect, and Mr. 
Holvery had come himself to take the necessary instructions, attracted 
by the great public reputation of his new client. 

“You see,” said Delfoy, gradually unfolding the subject to the great 
purveyor of public enthusiasm, “ I have not been near the place for the 
last twenty years, and I don’t know how it looks, nor what state the 
village is in, nor who the people are ; and I want you to And out its re- 
sources and use them, as far as they go, and supplement them so as to 
make a good show in the London papers. 

Mr. Holvery intruded with a slight cough, and said. 

May I ask whether a report in the London papers is your objective 


THE LORD OF LUCKROSS 


293 


I “Well — yes,” said Delfoy, reflectively, “I suppose that is it — yes. 
Now it’s very strange, Mr. Holvery, I never saw it in that light before, 
but unquestionably that is the light in which to view it.” 

Mr. Holvery smiled, and said, apologetically, in his dulcet tones, 

“ I always like to get at the objective point flrst, and work it out as 
circumstances permit.” 

“Yes,” said Delfoy, reflecting still, “that’s quite wise — yes, quite 
wise. Now, I suppose, Mr. Holvery, it couldn’t be managed to get a 
I report in the London papers without the preliminary absurdities, and 
save the trouble of them — for this is going to bore me frightfully, you 
I know.” 

Mr. Holvery shook his head as he answered, 
j “ It might be managed ; I have known cases in which it has been 
I managed, but the experiment is dangerous, and I do not recommend the 
' attempt. It is always prudent to have a fact to go upon.” 

! The member of Parliament waived the subject back to Mr. Holvery 
as he said, “ Give me your ideas,” and the contractor proceeded to check 
off the points as if he were reading a catalogue at a sale. 

“ Return of the old family after long exile. Villagers, tenants, parson, 
school-master, neighboring proprietors — ” 

“ No,” interrupted Delfoy, “ neighboring proprietors doubtful.” 

“ They may be approached ?” inquired the contractor. 

“ I think not,” answered Delfoy. “ I prefer not.” 

“ There will be yourself,” pursued the contractor, “ and your wife.” 
j “ No,” said the member, “ not my wife — my mother and my sister. 
My wife, I regret to say, has misbehaved herself.” 

He waived the subject away as being disagreeable, and invited Mr. 
Holvery to proceed. 

“ Well, sir, there will be the oldest inhabitant. I presume he can be 
got?” 

“ No doubt ; the parson will dig him up, and you must put him in order, 
j The oldest inhabitant will, no doubt, be glad to make your acquaintance, 

I Mr. Holvery, and will be a feature. If possible, he could be utilized to 

I read the address — and now about the address. Of course I should know 
nothing about it, but I suppose you can provide that document, along 
with the flags and banners and the Venetian poles — some poor devil of 
' a literary hack can turn that out for you, eh ?” 

Mr. Holvery would undertake to provide fifty addresses in the course 
of the afternoon, in any variety, each provided with a Shakespearian quo- 
tation or a classic, according to taste and the character of the audience. 
Mr. Holvery declared he could put his hand at any moment upon what 
he described as an “ extinct Cambridge Don,” as if he were speaking of 
■ an exhausted volcano, of rare capacity in the matter of addresses; and 
he assured his new client that royalty had been provoked to a condition 


294 


THE VEILED HAND 


of enthusiasm by some of the Corporation addresses provided by the 
same pen. 

“ Very good,” responded Delfoy. “ Then we’ll have the ‘ extinct Cam- 
bridge Don ’ turned on, and you can make a note or two for him. 
Suppose, now, you throw in a word of sympathy about my wife’s proceed- 
ings. She’s gone off, you know, with a rascally newspaper editor.” 

“ Scarcely a subject,” suggested Holvery, “ for a congratulatory ad- 
dress from a conventional point of view.” 

“ Ah,” said Delfoy, “ no doubt you’re right ; but I want something 
sympathetic thrown in, because, you know, I’ve been devilishly ill-used 
one way and the other.” 

“What about your father?” inquired Holvery. “Will he do? He 
would be quite permissible.” 

“That’s not exactly the thing I want,” said Delfoy, musing. “I see 
your point, but I want something more personal. A father, you know, 
is ordinary and commonplace. Perhaps,” he added, after a pause, “ it 
would be better if we put up with him, but I think you should get in the 
phrase ‘ domestic troubles.’ The inference would be apparent, and that 
is what I require.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Holvery, in a tone which meant “ No ” as plainly as 
tongue could speak, and he made a note. 

“Don’t misconstrue me,” said Delfoy, who marked the inflection of 
the delicate voice. “ We are bound to deal with these matters apart 
from personal feeling and from an artistic point of view.” 

“ Certainly,” said the contractor. “ I was looking at it purely from 
that point of view as controlled by the objective point already stated. 
I should not like to see a phrase in a leading article in the Post^ say, on a 
matter that had been intrusted to me. suggesting ‘ questionable taste,’ 
say, or some other criticism that I could not challenge. It is necessary 
to be careful in these mattei-s. They are delicate, sir, I assure you — they 
are very delicate.” 

“Yes, yes, of course they are; but, my dear fellow” — Delfoy grew 
familiar in his earnestness — “ she will never defend the action seriously ; 
she’s enraptured with the man. He has fascinated her.” Then he added, 
in a calm, judicial tone, “ I admit she’s weak — she always was ; but that 
is part of my case,” and he settled down to a dispassionate contemplation 
of the carpet, as if that were another part of his case. 

Mr. Holvery said he would make a note. His professional reputation 
would permit him to go no further. He did not say so, but what he 
meant was that he and the “ extinct Cambridge Don ” would talk it over, 
and maintain the reputation of the greatest contractor that ever lived. 

So Delfoy reverted to the dinner to the tenantry, and suggested three 
entries and a savory for the upper table, “ to make it endurable, you 
know ; and we”il have the parson and the newspaper men there. I’ll 


THE LORD OF LUCKROSS 


295 


ask Squarely, of The Frivol, myself, and my mother and sister will be 
the only ladies.” 

There was another telegram from Lohman & Last, saying that the 
market was undecided; and again Delfoy wondered why he had no com- 
munication from Bowdler. He felt nervous as he showed the contractor 
out, discoursed absently about the oldest inhabitants, about placing funds 
at the disposition of the parson, and he repeated many times, as his 
mind wandered in the direction of fields of pig-iron, that, in any case, he 
would do whatever was necessary. But he returned and walked the 
room, saying to himself, “ Where’s Bowdler? What can he be doing?” 
Ultimately, finding consolation in cursing Bowdler, he dressed, had lunch 
at the Peelton Club, and went down to the House of Commons to make 
laws for the controlling of other people. 


It was a sad sort of consolation that the Lady Grace experienced in 
the triumphal return to Luckross. Holvery had done his part well. 
There were plenty of banners and Venetian poles. A gigantic tri- 
umphal arch, kept in stock by him for emergencies, created an immense 
sensation among the villagers ; but the villagers were few, and dispirited 
by long neglect. Although supplemented by half a dozen pairs of good 
strong lungs from the county town, they cheered feebly for such an occa- 
sion. It was not the absence of color or eloquence or cheering that 
troubled the Lady Grace, and it is probable that she never detected the 
artificiality that surrounded the gloom of the rejoicings. For her the 
triumph had come too late. It is true it was Geoffrey who accompanied 
her up the drive and over the bridge and under the ancient gateway, and 
a little tenderness was provoked within her callous breast at sight of 
some of the old faces, so long denied the nurturing hand that theory, 
and in some cases practice, associates with the resident proprietor ; but 
“ Too late,” “ Too late,” was the ever-recurring motto on the banners, 
and the constant chorus to the grandiloquent address provided by the 
“ extinct Cambridge Don.” It seemed to her as if the world, as she had 
hoped for it, had died, or had, like herself, wearied of waiting for the 
promised glories, and was fading gradually into a state of settled gloom, 
never to be bright again. 

And Grace, the hard, bold, strong, managing Grace, too, was soured, 
and seemed unable to encourage hope, or even to smile. She had be- 
come angry with the world ; and now, as the prospect had opened of 
better times, she schemed revenge upon the people who had angered her 
in the past by being prosperous and gay ; and most of all she schemed 
revenge upon herself, but never thought of that. 

So the people cheered, and the brass-band struck up “ See the Con- 
quering Hero Comes,” and the scliool-master read the address, and the 


< 

c 


296 


THE VEILED HAND 


oldest inhabitant, in a new suit of corduroy, presented it, and the parson 
sanctified the imposture by his earnest welcome and his grave sincerity. 

Squarely kept his spirits up, by lecturing Mr. Vickers upon the art 
treasures of the Castle, and Vickers kept his up by assisting “ the gen- 
tlemen of the press ” to sherry-and-bitters. But the gloomiest and most 
distressful member of the party was the hero of the day himself. He 
was nervous and uneasy. Telegrams had been following him all day, 
and, though varied in language, upon all of them was written in bolder 
characters than any on the banners in the streets or on the walls of the 
hall, “ No buyers ” and “ Bowdler still in bed.” Lohman & Last had 
exhausted their vocabulary of hope, and had rung the changes to dis- 
traction upon “ a flat, market,” “ a nervous market,” “ an uncertain mar- 
ket,” and “ a timid market ;” buyers had been described as “ shy,” as 
“ cautious,” as “ waiting,” and as “ hesitating,” coupled with hints of 
differences among the strikers and the discovery of a more confident 
tone on the part of the iron-masters. How could Geoffrey Delfoy be 
other than ii;ritable ? 

The banquet was a relief to all. Squarely was boisterous in his glut- 
tony, and Vickers profuse in his panegyrics. There was no want of ap- 
preciation of Holvery’s notion of Luckross hospitality on the part of the 
friends at the upper table, and the tenantry forgot their troubles in this 
advent of a golden era, consisting chiefly of roast beef and strong brown 
ale. 

Whether the consequences of the abundant supplies would have pre- 
vented the proposed speech-making cannot be said, because the period 
of trial was 'never reached. When the banquet was about three parts 
exhausted there came another telegram. Delfoy read it and turned 
pale. He clutched at the table and looked round for Dubley, standing 
by his elbow, with that look of terror in his face which Dubley had 
come to understand. In a moment, before the company was aware that 
anything unusual had occurred, Delfoy was drinking half a tumbler of 
neat brandy, and his neighbors thought he was tasting the brown ale to 
see that his tenantry were being well served. 

His sister, sitting next the clergyman on Geoffrey’s left, was an ex- 
ception to the rest. She saw and understood ; the lines on her hard face 
were deeper drawn, and she was prepared for a catastrophe. Geoffrey 
recovored some portion of his equanimity as he crumpled the telegram 
in bis hands, and gazed with a firm-set face down the long table; but a 
tremor passed through his frame, and it needed another and even heav- 
ier glass of the substitute for old brown ale to bring the nerves to their 
bearings. Then he turned to the parson and asked him to take his 
place for a few minutes as he felt unwell, and it was necessary for him 
to lie down awhile in private. So he left the large hall of Luckross, 
having plaved the part of resident owner for an hour. 


THE LORD OF LUCKR^SS 


297 


By the time the parson had begun to wonder whether or not he 
should send for his host, since the few minutes which he had spoken of 
had drawn out to half an hour, Delfoy was on the road to London, 
never to return. The telegram had said, “ Strike collapsed — men go in 
to-morrow,” and he cried aloud to his gods for the blood of Bowdler; 
but when he reached the Caledonian Hotel, in the Adel phi, Bowdler was 
reported to be delirious and babbling of green fields. 


Chapter XLV 
THE BULLS AND THE BEARS 

It was reported in all the most veracious channels of information that 
Mr. Bowdler’s unfortunate illness had been much aggravated by the 
mental suffering he experienced through the unfortunate position of the 
iron-workers in the north. It was also stated that his recovery would 
be slow, but that having been forbidden to transact any business what- 
ever, or to receive any visitors, it was hoped that in a fortnight’s time it 
would be possible to move him to a watering-place on the south coast. 

A great many people, from various motives, made attempts to get 
speech of him, but the approaches to his retreat were jealously guarded ; 
and the same answer being given to every applicant at the threshold of 
the hotel, none even mounted the first flight of stairs, much less pene- 
trated the inner chamber, where two hard-featured, resolute men played 
cards and dominos all day long, except when they smoked and drank 
and quarrelled and schemed as they waited the maturing of a bill ac- 
cepted by the Messrs. Robez. Sometimes they had a third with them, 
who drank and smoked and played cards with more determination than 
either of them. He was the doctor — a young man of vigorous constitu- 
tion, and with few patients apparently, for he spent most of his waking 
hours in the company of this particular patient and his most devoted 
attendant, Mawll, who never left “ the poor gentleman who was ill,” as 
they said in the hotel, day nor night, to the great surprise and admira- 
tion of everybody in the place. 

They had a suite of excellent apartments overlooking the river, and 
made themselves particularly comfortable by the aid of the doctor, who 
not only looked at his patient’s tongue every morning and felt his pulse 
and took his temperature with much solemnity, but acted as messenger 
between the interesting couple and an office hard by, where the strike 
organization was being carried on or off as times and necessities changed. 

The peculiar relations of each to the other of this trio had come 
about without any precise arrangement in detail beyond the fact that the 
youthful doctor had his special function marked out for him. New- 
mans, in a hazy way, had anticipated a daily walk in the dusk of the 
evening during this period of suspense, but from the moment he laid it 
down as a principle of action that it was his duty to take charge of the 
bill, bis friend Bowdler concluded that it would not be prudent to let him 


THE BULLS AND THE BEARS 


299 


out of his sight; and whenever the slightest suggestion was made by 
Mawll that a little walk would do him good, Bowdler at once resisted 
the proposal with a most determined “ No, you won’t.” 

It is probable that many a man has a notion that a month of com- 
plete idleness, with a supply of tobacco, cards, and other resources of 
indolence, would be a sort of elysium ; but if associated with compulsory 
seclusion, experience would teach them that the elysium in question had 
its drawbacks; and it is easy to understand that a month’s devotion to 
cards and dominos, relieved only by the perusal of the daily papers, 
would become monotonous, notwithstanding they contained most agree- 
able references to the settlement of the strike and the distressing illness 
of Mr. Bowdler, M.P. 

“ Now, look you here,” said Bowdler, on an occasion when Newmans 
proposed a walk for himself, “you’re not a-going out till you go with 
me to get. that coin, and then we go in a four-wheeler with the doctor, 
and we go right away to Paris.” 

Newmans, who was at great pains to keep up the character of his hair 
and eyebrows, was rather disconcerted by this, and said he could not 
understand the objection to his taking a little walk, say on Adelphi 
Terrace. 

“ Can’t you ?” responded Bowdler. “ Then I can. You was good 
enough to say that I might raise money on that bill that you’ve had the 
impudence to put into your pocket, and that you considered it was your 
duty to prevent me a-doing of it. Now I consider it’s my duty to pre- 
vent you a-doing of something worse than that, and you know what it 
is. But as you seem to be making believe you don’t know what it is,” 
he continued, getting exasperated at his friend’s immobility and coming 
forward with a menacing look, “ I’ll tell you. It’s my duty, Newmans, 
to prevent. you a-forging of my name on that bill, and that’s why you’ve 
got to stop along of me till we go to Robez’s together, and why we 
don’t go out of here till we do go to Robez’s together ; and look’ee here, 
Newmans — and I’ll always call you Newmans whenever you annoy me — 
when we go to Robez’s together, Robez shall do the dividing of 'the pro- 
portions — mine to me and yourn to you, and I’ll never touch your bit 
and you won’t touch my bit, s’elp me.” 

And Bowdler made a deep respiration after this expenditure of 
breath, and put his hands in his trousers-pockets and marched round the 
room once, bringing himself up by the window, and looking out across 
the Thames to scowl in envy at the boatmen in their 'freedom going to 
and fro. 

Newmans heard the declaration in silence,- followed his companion 
with his eye, and then, as Bowdler brought himself up, said, “Very 
good ;” but there was malice in his eye. 

There was no more said about exercise in the open air, and the two 


300 


THE VEILED HAND 


prowled backward and forward in their cage, each on his own side, like 
a couple of tigers ready to spring at each other’s throat, and would have 
done so but for fear of the keeper, which,in this case was no other than 
that mysterious and undefined power, “ public report,” that might have 
led anywhere if once it got possession of a single thread of truth about 
the lives of these two malignant beings. 

The strain upon the amiability of the two prisoners was relieved by 
the return of the doctor, who recommended a John Collins and crib- 
bage, and the advice was taken. 

The doctor was a stout young man, more fond of beer than medicine, 
and very fond of his pipe. He lighted up as the two took their places 
at table, and when he had them fairly at work, with “ two for his nob 
and one for his heels,” he announced his intention of making a call, and 
said he would be back by dinner-time. 

Bowdler played with great determination, and was not at all pleased 
when Newmans counted the fifteens in undue proportions. He was 
more annoyed at his friend’s manner than his success, for when New- 
mans made a point or two he did not rejoice openly, but chuckled and 
hugged himself in a confidential and satisfied way that made Bowdler 
think of the bill in his pocket, and made him more than ever want to 
get it out of Newmans’s pocket and into his own. • 

The persistency with which the luck remained with Newmans added 
to his skill, and his winnings grew apace. The incident reduced Bowdler 
to a most unreasoning prejudice against his friend, caused him to make 
sinister observations as to the origin of the luck, and induced him to rise 
up and walk the room between the deals. These walks did not appease 
him, for a fiood of dreadful doubts rushed upon him as to the future, 
and he would turn and look at Newmans, methodically shuffling the 
cards, with quite a murderous look. 

The arrival of the first batch of evening papers relieved the strain. 
They had the entire issue of the daily literature of London and a good 
many of the papers published in the country as soon as they eould be 
procured, and a blessed relief it was. The arrival of each paper was fol- 
lowed by a regular search throughout all the columns to see what they 
afforded of personal interest to them and their hopes. Accordingly, on 
the arrival of the evening papers, they left the cards on the table and ' 
each took a paper to the window. 

“ There’s another busted,” said Bowdler, who always looked to the 
commercial news first. “ A banker this time, and for a good round 
sum. Pigs is down to 40s. 4 g?., and no buyers. Lord ! what a twister 
it’s given ’em.” 

“Yes,” said Newmans, in response to this pious comment, “it has 
shaken a few houses of position.” 

Newmans looked round as he said this, as if be had supposed some - 


THE BULLS AND THE BEARS 


301 


one might be near to convict him of slander. Bovvdler was less discreet 
and less conscious of turpitude when discussing as a statesman and phi- 
losopher the delinquencies and follies of commercial men. 

“Yer see, there’s a lot of bad work goin’ on in the City that wants 
exposin’, ” said Bowdler, leaning back in his chair. “ Yer know, Mawll, 
this’ll do a deal of good, this kick-up. Why, yer know, it’ll work out 
the bad firms and solidify trade. That’s what it’ll do, and it’s a good 
tiling to do it.” 

Bowdler said this with an air of conviction that would have done credit 
to a Prime-minister, and Newmans half veiled his eyes as he answered, 

“ Yes, it will solidify trade.” 

“There’s a deal too much speculation going on, you know, and too 
little legitimate trade,” pursued Bowdler, with the paper on his knee. 
“ It’s legitimate trade we want, eh ?” 

“ Yes,” acquiesced Newmans, “ legitimate trade;” and they began to 
read again. 

“ I don’t see nothing more,” said Bowdler, dolefully. 

“ Here’s an item of some interest,” responded Newmans, “ respecting 
Delfoy.” 

“ Eh ?” cried Bowdler, all excitement. “ Out with it.” 

“ It’s a paragraph all by itself,” said Newmans, “ and it says : ‘ There 
are rumors current concerning the probable failure of a prominent mem- 
ber of Parliament who has recently been spoken of as likely to take of- 
fice. It is stated that the embarrassment has been caused by specula- 
tions in pig-iron during the recent crisis in commercial circles. The 
liabilities are said to be heavy.’ ” 

“Give it ’ere,” said Bowdler, reaching out his hand. lie took the 
paper and read it eagerly, looked about him, shook his head, and then 
took a walk round with his hands in his pockets. After going the 
round of the room twice, he came up to Newmans, who was continuing 
his examination of the papers quite unmoved, and said, in a persuasive 
tone : 

“You know, this ’ere Delfoy had no call to do this. He’s been 
greedy, you know, and he’s a domineerin’ sort of fellow — a domineerin’ 
aristocrat I call him. I never reelly liked him, you know. He was al- 
ways so patronizin’, especially when he wanted you to do him a favor. 
I think it serves him right.” 

With this Bowdler took another walk ; and having been solaced with 
the reflection that the commercial air was being purified, and that Del- 
foy was getting the natural deserts of greed and domineering, and hav- 
ing specially congratulated himself on the presumption that every- 
body appeared to have forgotten Bowdler, he proposed to resume the 
game of cribbage with Mr. Newmans, who found him quite agreeable 
company. 


302 


THE VEILED HAND 


Day by day the uneasiness in the City increased, and the list of fail- 
ures was added to, not only by those who could not help themselves but 
by others less involved, who thought it a convenient opportunity to free 
themselves from embarrassments that in less turbulent times would have 
been fought against with unvarying energy. The panic extended to 
every branch of trade, and was aggravated by a feeling of distrust and a 
refusal of all concessions that at other times would be the common in- 
cidents of trading. 

It is a curious incident associated with commercial panic that it is 
only in rare cases, such as the failure of a great bank, coming like a 
'bolt from the blue, that the origin of the movement can be discovered. 
In practice it is never discovered, because, as in this instance, not only is 
the cause intentionally hidden, but the consequences are so far-reaching, 
and the temptations to malversation provoked by it are so numerous 
and so varied that catastrophe, in the first instance, results in some quar- 
ter far removed from the initial cause ; and when the failures react step 
by step, as they must until they reach the initial cause, those who 
should have suffered first are looked upon as victims. 

In this way it came to pass that Geoffrey Delfoy, M.P., was regarded 
as an imprudent person and nothing more. The measures taken with 
him, however, were none the less drastic. Lohman & Last went to the 
wall long before the vengeful spirit of commercial law put its hand upon 
him. He was merely an asset of the estate of Lohman & Last to begin 
with, and when he had developed into a defaulter the entire City was in 
fear of shadows, and the Stock Exchange would have sacrificed to Plutus 
every morning before making quotations if it had known how to set 
about the work of propitiation. 

Even when the blow actually fell upon him, Delfoy was unable to con- 
strue the extremity to which he had come. Gamblers never add up : 
they have a prejudice against it; and by the time some one else had add- 
ed up for him, he had ceased to have a personality in law, and was rep- 
resented by a trustee, to whom in sullenness he handed over, one by one, 
his wrecker’s gains. 


Chapter XLVI 
THE WRECK 

Poor Dubley, sitting in his little pantry and gloomily contemplating 
a tray of broken crockery, was conscious of a terrible presence on the 
other side of the passage — unwashed, unshaven, blear-eyed, and dishev- 
elled — almost naked, save for a pair of braceless trousers and a torn jack- 
et above a sleeping- suit of flannels. The figure lay for hours on the 
couch or huddled in the easy-chair, or else would be stretched prone 
upon the hearth-rug, according as the - capacity for motion and control 
was still existent or wholly gone. 

The daily routine was maintained. The newspaper was aired but nev- 
er read ; the boots were varnished afresh but never worn ; the breakfast 
was prepared but remained untasted; the mutton-chop was grilled and 
served only to be removed untouched. No solid food of any sort had 
passed the monstrous animal’s lips for a fortnight, save a few biscuits 
left about the room as if by accident, that he might meet with them as 
he shuffled to and fro ; and these he took as if by stealth. Poor Publey, 
still faithful and devoted even in this extremity, watched for their dis- 
appearance and supplied others. Moreover, he removed the brandy to 
unaccustomed places, watered the bottles that were demanded peremp- 
torily, and obtruded mutton-chops and kidneys and pate de foie gras in- 
cessantly at all hours of the twenty-four in hopes of arresting the de- 
bauch. A vigorous attempt to intrude a reasonable breakfast on this 
very morning had resulted in a savage onslaught, and a catastrophe in 
the shape of broken crockery and a broken head. Poor Dubley, sitting 
in his little pantry, with his chin in his hands, and surrounded by the 
material tokens of his devotion and his master’s debasement, was indeed 
the more miserable of the two, since he was conscious of his misery and 
of its cause. 

The collapse was complete. Had the attack come less suddenly upon 
him, Delfoy might have faced it and triumphed by means of an early 
and judicious compromise ; but the strain of the few months anterior to 
the closing of the strike had left him with but a small reserve of strength 
and without a shred of initiative. Moreover, it happens to be the inter- 
est of those who live by the misfortune of others to decline compromise 
and avoid settlements. The liquidation of a large estate affords infinite 
opportunity for the creation of complications and the discovery of con- 


304 


THE VEILED HAND 


tentious matter. Accountants and solicitors being human and trained 
to acquisitiveness, it is natural that debtor and creditor alike should suf- 
fer when the elastic rules of commerce are strained to breaking point by 
commercial cormorants. 

The chief cormorant in this case was4he victim’s friend, adviser, con- 
fidant, confederate — John Huckle. It is always so. In the light and 
airy way of the Commercial Cormorant in his first flight, the, victim was 
solaced by sarcastic allusions to the absurdity of regarding the events as 
serious. The catastrophe was not only made light of, but forty shillings 
in the pound was talked about as the least possible estimate of the as- 
sets. John Huckle slapped his friend on the back and bade him cheer 
up ; but when the trust-deed had been signed, an accountant appointed, 
and the future of the estate had become a question of legal controversy, 
of forced sales, and of costs and charges, John Huckle assayed the 
debtor, shook his head over the business, and assumed the manners of 
the austere monitor. Men of sterner calibre than Geoffrey Delfoy have 
succumbed to the wearing down of their nerves by the tDommercial 
Cormorant. He made the only effort at resistance he had ever been 
capable of : he sought the stimulant that, as yet, had never failed him, 
and essayed to guide the wreck into harbor; but the strain was pro- 
tracted beyond his strength, the stimulant no longer had the power to 
carry the brain and the nerve over the crest of the wave — and he went 
down ! 

A desperate remedy, desperately applied, had failed to revive the de- 
pleted energies of the shattered man ; and having exhausted its power 
as a stimulant, it harried its suppliant as if in revenge for exhibiting its 
incapacity, and flung him to the ground, even as the devils of hell are 
said to rend a man and fling his flaccid carcass to the winds when it 
ceases to be potential for evil. The element that no longer had the 
power to warm and to inspire was still free to destroy ; and day by day 
and hour by hour it bore its victim to the ground, and held him there 
in moody brutishness. 

And yet there was something more than a sodden carcass lying on 
the other side of the passage as Dubley wrestled with the great social 
problem involved in the broken teacups and the broken head. The 
spirit of the man was in thraldom, but it was there, struggling for 
ascendency as it had ever done in the midst of the clay. Can we not 
imagine its desperate evolutions within the benumbed and prostrate 
frame? Was it not ever striving to assert itself — ever rising out of the 
fathomless whirlpool into which it had been cast — groping fatuously for 
life, volition, power to act? And even as the perception of renewed 
vitality seemed to be within its grasp, did it not seek to hasten that re- 
vival by the accustomed flllip; and did it not, instead of mounting to 
the crest of the wave by the old enchantment, find itself speeding head- 


THE WRECK 


305 


long once again to the very utmost depths, again to begin the weary 
round of palsied groping in a poisoned brain ? See how it writhes, 
swirling in endless eddies, and with interminable strivings, ever and anon 
clutching at shadows in the vain endeavor to burst the bonds and rise 
again to manhood and to life; and see how, ever and anon, in defiance 
of all things in heaven and upon earth, it seeks for evil purpose and 
gropes for instruments wherewith to strike at holiness for being holy in 
the aimless fury of its impotence. 

Living as he had lived, in exclusion from all save those whom he had 
from time to time summoned to hear his mandate and then dismissed to 
do his bidding, he was alone now — less cared for by the world than even 
he had cared for any pleading creature in the past. Dubley alone of all 
the many servitors and - parasites who once had waited on his every 
word — the patient, all-enduring Dubley alone^ remained to make an 
effort to wrest his spirit from the demon that possessed him. 

God knows how little there is of purity of purpose and self-denial in 
any heart of all the living beings on the earth. God knows how bold 
and arrogantly shameless Self sits enthroned within each little kingdom 
called a Man, and, being arrogant and bold, inflates the boundaries of its 
realm and deems assumption virtue. And yet deep down within each 
heart the germ of truth and all the myriad godlike attributes that give 
the crown to man’s inheritance lie hidden even in the worst of us — aye, 
and may be found and nurtured by those who have the talisman, and, 
being rescued from its living grave, may grow to rich fruition. But 
Dubley’s was a poor hand to delve in such a heart as Geoffrey Delfoy’s, 
incrusted with the turgid growth of years and wrapped in a loathsome 
egotism. Nor more was Shout’s much better suited for the work; yet 
Shout was the good Samaritan summoned by Dubley in this season of 
grievous need, and Shout’s welcome ring was heard on this Sunday 
morning as Dubley nursed his chin and groaned at the broken crockery 
or swathed his broken head. 

The Caesar Borgia Company had been playing down in the West of 
England the latest domestic drama of passion and debauchery, “ licking 
up,” as Mr. “ Lascelles ” Shout expressed it, the smaller towns in the prov- 
inces, while London audiences applauded for the two hundredth time 
this latest effort of dramatic genius. 

“ Ah !” said Dubley, as he opened the door, “ ah ! Mr. Shout, how 
very glad I am to see you — how very glad !” 

Dubley lifted up his hands as in adoration of the appearance of his 
master’s friend. His dishevelled appearance, open shirt -collar, dank 
hair, and look of horror at the recollection of what was lying about in- 
side, presented so grotesque an appearance that Shout must needs laugh. ~ 

“ Oh, Mr. Shout,” cried Dubley, “ you must not laugh ! I do declare 
you must not laugh !” 

20 


306 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ Indeed,” said Shout, “ is it as bad as that ?” 

“ Oh yes, it’s very bad. Come in, Mr. Shout, and don’t speak too 
loud. Pie may hear you and he may be violent. Ob, Mr. Shout, it’s 
very good of you to come, and such a long distance. Wait. Hush !” 
said Dubley, clutching Shout by the arm and pulling him away from the 
room where he had usually seen Delfoy, “not there yet. Let me tell 
you first what has happened.” 

With this Dubley led Shout into the pantry, took his hat and stick 
from him, and offered him the only chair — a low one, that had been 
cut down at some remote period to form a leg- rest, and was now 
used by Dubley for sleeping in when he waited the summons of his 
master. 

“ The accommodation is scanty, Mr. Shout,” said Dubley. “ I mus'n’t 
have my chair too comfortable, you see, else I should sleep too sound. 
I’ve not been in bed, Mr. Shout, for a week. That’s how you’ll excuse 
my untidy appearance, Mr. Shout. It’s not my habit to be untidy, I 
assure you.” 

Shout listened to this and much more in the shape of apology, re- 
viewed the broken crockery and the mangled food ; and, without taking 
much notice of Dubley’s remarks, placidly took up a fork and rescued a 
mutton-chop from among the bottles of a cruet-stand and a confusion 
of forks and spoons. The act of lifting up the chop disclosed a letter 
floating in the gravy and Worcester sauce with the postmark “ Madrid” 
upon it. The letter had been carried in with the breakfast and was 
now a part of the ruin. 

“Now that’s a good chop, Dubley,” said Shout, eying it as a con- 
noisseur — “ a very excellent chop, Dubley ; and you .say Delfoy won’t 
eat it ?” 

“ No, Mr. Shout ; he will eat nothing, positively nothing, sir,” said 
Dubley, emphatically. 

“ Then I will, Dubley, for I am hungry after my four hours’ railway 
journey and Mr. Shout held the chop aloft while Dubley procured a 
clean plate and spread a napkin on the dresser, and with knife and fork 
and a bottle of pickles Mr. Shout was served. Shout’s eye, however, 
wandered now' and then to the letter from Madrid, and although his 
thoughts were obviously much occupied with it, he made no comment, 
but silently placed it upright before him, against the bottle of pickles, 
to drain. 

Shout sat on the back of Dubley’s chair, or, to be more accurate, 
leaned against it, and remarked as he disposed of the chop that there 
was no greater mistake in the world than to go without food ; that his 
friend Delfoy was making a very great mistake in refusing to eat his 
breakfast ; and that he was disposed to agree with Dubley that the case 
of his old friend had become serious. 


THE WRECK 


307 


“Very serious, Mr. Shout, I assure you, very serious. What do you 
advise ?” 

“ When you have given me a brandy-and-soda, Dubley, Til tell you ; 
but, as you know, drinking is equally as necessary as eating for the re- 
freshment of man. I will therefore drink, Dubley.” 

“ In moderation I believe it is, Mr. Shout,” said Dubley, who pro- 
duced the drink with alacrity and attended on his visitor almost as if he 
had no other concern but Mr. Shout’s comforts. 

“You see, Dubley,” said Shout, swirling the brandy-and-soda round, 
and contemplating the whirlpool in his glass in a reflective way, “ we 
must first have a look at him, and see what we can do in the way of 
reasoning with him — eh, Dubley ? Don’t you think that’s the way ?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Dubley, “ it’s most desirable.” I do assure you I think 
it quite desirable.” 

Dubley uttered this with his hands clasped, and eagerly intent upon 
every motion of his friend and deliverer. Hope, indeed, had begun to 
revive within him, when suddenly Shout turned round, as he balanced 
himself against the back of the low chair, and said, in a cheery voice, 

“ Dubley, an idea occurs to me : have you ever thought of the stage 
as a profession ?” 

“Dear me, no, sir!” exclaimed Dubley, with his hands apart and half 
uplifted at first in horror at the question in the circumstances; and then 
a sickly smile overspread his countenance as the footlights flashed upon 
him and kindled a spasm of ambition. “Oh dear, no, sir,” added Dud- 
ley, “ it would be presumption.” 

“Not so,” said Shout, who had conceived the idea of getting Dubley 
to represent himself on the stage. He had a part that fitted him exact- 
ly, and that would be much improved if Dudley would only impersonate 
himself in the character. “ No, Dubley ; you are made for the stage,” 
pursued Shout. “ When do you leave here ?” 

“Ah!” said Dubley, shaking his head solemnly, “that’s the unfortu- 
nate part of the business — most unfortunate. They say they will remove 
the effects next week. All the valuables are locked up in the anteroom. 
That’s why you are here now, Mr. Shout, in my pantry. It’s very terrible.” 

“ Well, then, you will come down to me next week, Dubley, eh ?” 

“ Dear me, no,” gasped Dubley. “ I mus’n’t leave him and Dub- 
ley’s horror at the bare thought of leaving Delfoy so much impressed 
Shout from the managerial point of view that he registered a vow to the 
shade of Thespis that Dubley should be his dresser, and “star” occasion- 
ally as the “Unconscious Comic.” 

Dubley had other views and other thoughts. Timidly, but earnestly, 
he inquired, 

“ Don’t you think, Mr. Shout, we should—er— that you should see Mr. 
Delfoy now ?” 


308 


THE VEILED HAND 


“ Well, perhaps so,” said Shout. “ You say he is violent, eh?” 

“ Very much so upon occasions, Mr. Shout — most violent.” 

“ Then it behooves us to be cautious, eh, Dubley ?” 

“ Yes, sir, if you please,” said Dubley. 

“ And, Dubley,” said Shout, with his eye on the letter from Madrid, 
still draining as it stood against the pickle bottle, “ we should inform 
ourselves. It is our duty to inform ourselves — your duty as a servant, 
and mine as a friend. It is not wise to approach a violent man without 
a knowledge of the causes of his violence. Dubley, my friend, that let- 
ter contains information of the cause of his violence, and providentially, 
Dubley, quite providentially, the Worcester sauce has done its work. 
We can inform ourselves by the aid of the Worcester sauce and this 
knife without committing a breach of etiquette or decorum.” 

So saying. Shout wiped the knife on. a piece of- bread, and taking the 
envelope, the gum of which had been thoroughly well saturated, he 
opened it without a flaw. 

“ This is the work of the terrible Alister,” said Shout, looking sternly 
at Dubley as he unfolded the letter — “ the goaded Alister — the recreant 
outlaw. It will contain threats and menaces, against which you will 
guard your master and I will guard my friend.” 

He unfolded the letter and laid it out on the dresser. At the first 
glance he exclaimed, 

“ I am right ! Listen ; 

“ ‘ Betrayer !’ ” he read, ‘“know that the hand that writes these lines — 
the hand of the despised and rejected Alister — is the same that has com- 
passed your ruin. Though rejected and despised, as I have said, I could 
still reach you and strike. You used me to gather up your wealth, and 
then forced me to infamy and disgrace. I have revenged myself. You 
have many enemies — I have used them. My confidential agent has pro- 
cured the co-operation of the house of Heritage in the work of your de- 
struction. Ah ! you start at that name. You know you have an enemy 
there, and I know it. Your doom is sealed, for I alone could save 
you — I, The rejected Alister.’ ” 

The magniloquent style of the communication was vastly pleasing 
to the ear of Shout. He delivered it to Dubley as if he had been on the 
stage. The reference to the name of Heritage was a puzzle to him. Its 
vagueness seemed to conceal a deep meaning, although, as a matter of 
fact, it was merely a stray shot based on the modicum of information 
Newmans had seen fit to impart to his principal. Shout folded the let- 
ter again and transferred it to the disfigured envelope, which he closed 
and wiped down with his table napkin. 

“ A terrible letter, Dubley,” said he. “ Let it dry, and hand it to your 


THE WRECK 


309 


master when he is in full possession of his five senses, or better, place it 
in his room and let him come upon it. Now for the rescue, Dubley,’’ 
continued Shout, rising and leading the way. 

Standing outside the door in the dark passage. Shout turned, and, as- 
suming a tragic air, put his hand upon Dubley’s shoulder, and said, in a 
husky whisper, “ Stand you here and wait upon my call.” 

Dubley motioned assent as Shout grasped the door-handle. He turned 
it silently, opened the door, and put his head within the room. As he 
did so a sonorous snore resounded through the chamber. The member 
of Parliament was asleep. 

Shout brought his head out of the room, closed the door, and, walking 
on tiptoe, led Dubley back to the pantry. Having resumed his former 
position, he asked Dubley for another brandy-and-soda, and while it was 
being produced preserved an attitude of deep thought. When he had 
fortified himself with the draught Dubley had provided, he said, with a 
solemn shake of the head, 

“ He’s a gorner, Dubley — a clean gorner !” 

“ Indeed !” said Dubley. “ Is it as bad as that, Mr. Shout ?” 

“ Yes,” said Shout, “ no doubt about it. He was lying on his back in 
the middle of the room. He had overturned the brandy bottle in his 
fall, and the liquor was dribbling off the table onto his face. He’s a 
gorner, Dubley, and you’d better come along with me and leave him to 
the moles and to the bats.” 

Dubley shook his head. 

“ No, Mr. Shout,” ^aid he, “ I cannot leave him. I shall never leave 
him unless he sends me away.” 

“ Ah !” said Shout, nodding his head and muttering to himself, “ Faith- 
ful servant,” “Old retainer,” “Good for Dubley.” Then, rousing himself, 
he added, aloud, “ I can do nothing, Dubley. I have come up, as you 
sent for me, but I can do nothing ; nor can you. It cannot last long, and 
I shall expect you to come to me as soon as you are cast adrift. These 
are my dates and towns, Dubley, and there’s a couple of sovereigns for 
your expenses in getting to me.” 

Dubley held the list of dates in one hand and the money in the other, 
without apparently feeling himself in any way concerned in them, as he 
said : 

“Mr. Shout, I’m much obliged. I cannot bring myself to take the 
money, because, sir, if I may say so, it seems like believing the worst. I’ve 
a little saved, and if you will allow me, Mr. Shout, I’ll keep the dates and 
come if I am cast adrift, whic?i I trust it will not be the case, Mr. Shout, 
I do indeed.” 

For all the completeness of his speech Dubley was much agitated, and 
Shout observed a tear fall on the list of dates as he folded up the paper. 
This struck Shout as remarkably fine for effect, and he wondered whether 


310 


THE VEILED HAND 


it would be possible to get Dubley to manufacture tears when the situa- 
tion demanded them. He was afraid not, but was extremely anxious to 
try, and again and again pressed Dubley to remember that he would be 
daily and hourly expecting him. Finally he extracted a promise from 
Dubley to write to him, however briefly, every other day. 

By this time they had reached the front door, when Dubley said, 

“ Excuse me, Mr. Shout, but is not this a melancholy ending to a great 
career 

“Very much so,” said Shout. 

“ I trust it will not be an ending,” said Dubley ; “ but you seem, Mr. 
Shout, to be so sure about it.” 

“ Yes,” said Shout, “ not a doubt of it. He’ll never pull himself to- 
gether again.” 

“ Dear me,” said Dubley, “ I’ve observed it before — very often I’ve 
observed it, if you’ll allow me to say so, Mr. Shout.” 

He seemed anxious to get Shout’s permission to proceed, and had 
assumed his most solemn and impressive manner. Shout nodded ap- 
provingly as he said, 

“ Yes, Dubley, you have observed — ” 

“ That life’s a mistake, Mr. Shout, if you will allow me to say so,” 
said Dubley, with a most lugubrious countenance and with his hands 
down, as if all professional activity had become foolishness and vanity. 
“I give it up, Mr. Shout, if you allow me to say so. We work and 
work, and come to a hapex as it were, and when everything has been 
done, and everything has been accomplished as heart could wish, Mr. 
Shout, why — off we goes 1” • 

“ Ah !” said Shout, “ that’s your way of interpreting the vanity of 
human wishes, eh, Dubley ?” 

“ Well, Mr. Shout, if you are pleased to say so,” said Dubley, and 
then, with renewed earnestness and that look of supreme anxiety with 
which he always delivered his philosophical reflections, he added, “I can 
assure you, Mr. Shout, as you are pleased to interest yourself in me, that 
if I was to marry, as I have proposed to myself, and the young woman 
is quite ready, and was to take a cigar-shop in Piccadilly Circus, as I have 
proposed, and quite within my means, I believe I should die or go off 
somehow the very next week. It’s always so. We seem never to get 
there, Mr. Shout — the hapex, I mean, Mr. Shout — but what off we goes!” 

With this parting reflection the door closed and Shout went out into 
the sunshine, revolving the concerns of the Caesar Borgia Company, while 
Dubley returned to his pantry to ruminate on the terrible presence on 
the other side of the passage. 


Chapter XLVII 
THE REAPING 

Time passes, the seasons come and go, and in due time the harvest is 
reaped ; but the tares are reaped as well as the wheat, and the reaping 
never ends. 

Happiest among all the recollections that awakened the thankfulness 
of Morris Heritage was the thought that Philip had never known the 
whole truth as to his parentage. The subject was never once again re- 
ferred to between them, and in time the remembrance faded, and was 
shrouded over by the stronger growth of hallowed memories of better 
things. Still, it had become necessary, as occasion warranted, to set out 
the facts so far as they were known, as the relations between Philip and 
the Lady Alice became more fully recognized. Of course the countess 
w'as terribly shocked, or found it convenient to be so, when the circum- 
stance was made known to her that something very like a bar sinister 
would have been on Philip’s escutcheon if he had been blest with one ; 
and when it became known to her that Lady Alice was bent on marry- 
ing her new member, the absence of any escutcheon whatever was re- 
garded by the fractious lady as a more grievous offence than any con- 
ceivable blemish could be upon emblems whose antiquity could not be 
questioned, no matter whether the blemish had been the fruit of an act 
of yesterday or of a hundred years before, and the Lady Bolore was milch 
concerned about the view Society would take of the matter. 

The Right Honorable. Peter, however, who had gradually emerged from 
the seclusion into which his indiscretions in the mercantile world had 
forced him, and had hopes of a new flight in the political arena unencum- 
bered by Stock Exchange drawbacks, took a different view of the ques- 
tion. The Right Honorable Peter was one of those who always regard 
the good or ill fortune of others in no other light than in the way it 
affects their precious selves, and he became an ardent supporter of the 
Lady Alice’s scheme so soon as he had made up his mind that Philip 
would be a far more agreeable and obedient nephew than a person of 
great family, who would make a point of looking down upon him and 
snubbing him at every convenient opportunity, and might even decline 
his services as a trustee, which to the Right Honorable Peter would have 
been a calamity of the flrst magnitude. 


312 


THE VEILED HAND 


Accordingly the family lawyer was called in and settlements were dis- 
cussed, and the Right Honorable Peter conferred with Morris Heritage 
and the family solicitor about the bar sinister; and for the before- 
mentioned reasons the Right Honorable Peter made light of it, and 
pooh-poohed the family solicitor, who regarded the infraction of the law 
inherited by Philip with as much gravity as if he had in his own proper 
person commited high -treason, but who, having delivered himself with 
much emphasis on the subject, was content in the end to give his advice, 
and thereafter take his instructions without more ado. 

So as the *time passed and the seasons followed each other, and the 
ripe fruit fell, there came the sound of marriage bells beneath a summer 
sky, and bonfires were set a-blazing on Gilton Common, and there was 
rejoicing at Bramley Down, and happiness unalloyed was once more the 
lot of Muriel. 

When Philip and his bride had been many days upon their way 
abroad, his mother sat with Heritage on the high-built terrace of their 
new home, and a golden sunset tinted the landscape of Bramley Down, 
and there lay upon her lap a twice-read letter from her boy. 

He had written in the full-time glory of the happiest hours of his life 
— happier than he had ever been — happier than he could ever hope to 
be at any time to come; and the glorious truth sparkled in the record 
of every trivial incident upon the road they had travelled, and even put 
an aureola round the brow of Mr. Bowdler, M.P., studying art at Rome. 

It was here duly reported of Mr. Bowdler that he had not only ac- 
quired a taste for art, but that his political views had undergone a 
change. He now ceased to believe in the perfection of those natures in 
whose behalf he had hitherto burned the midnight oil and wrecked the 
finest constitution that was ever vouchsafed to mortal man. He com- 
plained of ingratitude, and sought consolation in the study of the 
treasures to be found on the site of the ancient mistress of the world. 

Heritage was tempted to give utterance to some wholesome cynicisms 
over this choice declaration, but he was thwarted by a whisper from 
Muriel as she gazed wistfully over the landscape. 

“We are all very happy now. Look, Morris, there are the girls. 
They are happier.” 

It was quite true. The country life had worked a change in Dora. 
The activity, the novelty, the varying moods of the sky and air, and the 
habits of the living things that now surrounded her had checked her 
brooding and destroyed her false philosophy. She had become less im- 
perious, and especially more gentle to Ethel, who, always responsive, had 
grown more confident. 

It did not appear that Mr. Bowdler, in his burst of confidence to 
Philip, had confided to him the particulars of his visit to Messrs. Robez 
with his friend Newmans and the doctor. What the doctor had to do 


THE REAPING 


313 


with the matter puzzled Newmans very much, for he was left outside the 
banker’s in the cab, and had no knowledge of the business they had 
come to transact. Bowdler, however, regarded the doctor as a sort of 
w'atch-dog, who would assist him in the event of. Newmans endeavoring 
to get away with the all-important documents before the transaction was 
completed. 

Once inside the banker’s and standing at the counter, Bowdler had no 
need of the doctor, and the business was transacted with strict regard to 
the programme he had laid down. In the first place, Newmans produced 
the bill, and handed it to Bowdler for indorsement. A letter of instruc- 
tions had already been sent to Messrs. Robez, requiring them to transfer 
the sums due to each to their house of Robez in Paris, and accordingly 
they were each presented with his own banker’s draft, and felt almost 
happy for the first time for a month. Their emotion was far too big for 
speech, and it was not until they were half-way across the channel that 
they felt really at ease. Bowdler admirably expressed the sentiments of 
both when he said, with a huge cigar in his mouth, as they sat on the 
deck of the steamer, 

“Upon my soul, Newmans, old man, fresh air’s a great blessing!” 

Newmans still remains on the Continent, and he has not thought it 
worth while to make the necessary sacrifices to procure rehabilitation. 
He, however, found the society of Bowdler irksome on account of his 
constant references to the large sum he had made by sitting still and 
seeing him work ; and he also had a desire to return to the circle he had 
left in Madrid and excite the envy of his companions by his improved 
position. He never explained to Alister in detail how he had encom- 
passed the downfall of his enemy, and certainly not what he had gained 
by it. He romanced a little on the subject, and although Alister was 
moderately delighted with the result, he had some misgivings as to the 
candor of his friend of the Prado. Messrs. Bell, the bankers, however, 
regarded Mr. Newmans with unbounded respect. 

Time passed badly for some, and brought with it wretchedness and 
grief, the reapings of the evil deeds of others. Mr. and Mrs. Chippering 
did not survive the shock of their daughter’s indiscretion, and Mr. Mar- 
maduke Bray earned the reward of his infamy by marrying Mrs. Delfoy 
as soon as the law allowed. As Mr. Chippering had omitted to alter his 
will, she came into possession of a considerable sum of money, and this 
perhaps stimulated Mr. Bray’s sense of honor. He discharges his obliga- 
tions to the lady who has sacrificed so much for him by condescending 
to live under the same roof with her ; but he does not appear to be more 
attentive to her than her former husband had been, and is frequently 
abroad in public places — at dinner-parties and in drawing-rooms — where 
he gratifies his passion for declamation. His wife finds what consolation 
she can in the knowledge that she provides him with an income to ena- 


THE VEILED HAND 


. 314 

ble him the more abundantly to pursue his fascinating course. Some 
people say he is lucky ; but that is doubtful. 

Time passes and seasons follow each other, and must follow still, be- 
fore the reaping is finished ; and for some the harvest is more terrible 
than lips can speak or the mind conceive. There are moving among us 
day by day in this great city of London (unparalleled in the history of 
the world for its wealth and power among the people of the earth) some 
so very poor and so abject in their poverty that they seem scarcely 
human. Among these, the most abject, the most foul, the most terribly 
sunken beyond all power of recall, are some certain sort of men, who, 
varying in age as in stature and complexion and origin, move among us 
— more often by night than by day — scantily clothed, halting of foot, 
unshorn, unwashed, and utterly wretched. Their means of subsistence is 
less obvious than that of the pariah dog. Dirt is an essential part of 
their economy, for it checks waste and reduces the necessity of food. So 
long as the demands of hunger are silenced by nicotine, and the nerves 
are excited by alcohol, they endure existence, and even seem to hope. 

The most active and least despicable among them appear at one’s door 
upon alighting from a luggage-laden cab. Whence they come, and how 
they develop, as it were, from out of the very stones, with their hunger- 
haunted faces and ravenous eyes, none can tell. Where they burrow 
at all other times none may know, for the knowledge would be infa- 
mous. Still, these are not hopeless. They have some strength of limb, 
and hope cannot have left them or they would not run. Others of 
a bolder sort hover at the doors of theatres, and levy contributions (by 
provocation and the dislike of abuse) for services undesired and often 
unrendered. Many of these would be criminal if they dared ; but they 
have some courage, and take rank among the outcasts of the city above 
the wretch who shuflfles along the edge of the pavement with his hands 
in his pockets and his head bent towards the ground as he searches the 
kennels of the city at the break of day. 

His w'ork lasts but for an hour or two. It begins about that time when 
the last debauchee and the last harlot disappear from the hideous night, 
and ends with the first sign of active city life. The gutter- searcher 
moves along with eager restlessness from place to place, and his hopes of 
profit lie in the fruits of that indolence or recklessness which comes of 
seeking pleasures in the lurid night. He can tell you to a nicety where 
most of those who “know what they are about” are sublimely indiffer- 
ent to a few coins more or less accidentally scattered on the ground, to be 
lost in the darkness and gleaned by the gutter-searcher at the dawn of 
day — a miserable gleaning of unconsidered trifles to be rescued from 
garbage and spent upon gin. 

Among the latest recruits to this fearful tribe is Geoffrey Delfoy, afore- 
time member of Parliament, and once owner of the estates of Hanswick 


THE REAPING 


315 

and Luckross and the manor of Santrail. His old masterful manner has 
acquired for him a beat in which he is unmolested by his brother pariahs. 
It is the most fruitful of any in the city, and the most destructive ; for 
it is part of the fate of these wretches to die speedily, in proportion as 
they have means to satisfy their craving for drink. Geoffrey Delfoy’s 
thirst is, as it ever was, for brandy. There had been times in his life, 
epochs of great moment, when he had resisted the disposition to rely on 
stimulant, and had thrust the temptation aside as an enemy to success. 
This is no longer so. He practically lives on alcohol, and his end cannot 
be far distant. 

The world, as he once knew it, has forgotten him. He has gone down, 
and is remembered only as a name in public records, and in his personality 
but by a very few. He has passed out of the small circle of the wealthy 
and influential in which he moved, and is now lost in the oblivion of 
squalor. Knowledge of his deeds remains hidden with him. So far as 
the world is concerned, he has never been found out. He has perhaps 
never found himself out. Even the origin of his misfortune has been 
concealed from him. The names of those he chooses to regard as his 
enemies he mutters in his wanderings, and the monotony of his blasphe- 
mies is relieved by the aimless execration of those whom he has wronged. 
The names of Alister, of Heritage, and even of the gentle Muriel, embody 
to his frenzy the authors of his chastisement, and the very demons of 
the air that pursue him as he wanders through the night. Never for a 
moment has he recognized that these victims of his malice had been but 
puny instruments for his destruction, so long as the guard of self-contr6l 
had regulated his ambitions and his acts. Never for a moment had he 
felt that for villainy to succeed there must be allied with malicious caution 
and reckless daring the same iron grip of self-restraint which guides the 
virtuous to honorable achievement and kind repose. He had laughed at 
attacks from his fellows, and had ignored the first conditions of success- 
ful warfare with the world; but the inexorable laws.of 'the God of the 
whole earth have moved on in their unerring and resistless course, and 
the canker of selfishness has led him to his destruction. 

The finite man, corrupt at his heart’s core, has devised and schemed, as 
the evil in man can, for ends that never satisfy, and for the realization 
of hopes that fade many days before they are deplored as a mirage by 
the selfishness that imagined them. The poorer and less abundantly 
endowed of his fellow-creatures envy the apparent successes of this mon- 
ument of corruption; they are dazzled by the glitter of his magniloquence 
and by his profusion, and encourage an impotent envy, not unmixed with 
awe, at what the criminal daring of their idol for the moment has 
achieved ; but the Omniscient Hand is ever out-stretched above them, 
and the lines are set. Whence they come, whither they lead, and why 
the insolent brutality of an essentially evil nature should prevail for a 


316 


THE VEILED HAND 


single moment upon this fair earth is the problem we cannot solve. And 
why the Sacrifice of Self — the very essence and spirit of the Christ — 
should so often be but an immolation at the feet of triumphant evil is 
the greatest mystery of life. * 

Is it not gratifying to learn from these pages that at least one of these 
undetected criminals, whose craft and malice have been hidden from the 
world, should now be suffering as no jail can make man suffer, and to 
whom the gallows would be an instrument of mercy ? 


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